The Magic Within
by Celtic Quill
Summary: After crashing onto a mysterious island, the Glee Club must deal with newfound magical powers, young love, personality conflicts, & an ancient Prophecy that destines their part in a raging battle of good vs evil. And they thought high school was tough...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hey, guys! I've been working on this story since August. It is very special to me and has been one of _the_ most fun stories I have ever written. I really hope that translates into the work and that you guys end up loving it! XD

First things first: This story's timeline to the show is sort of AU, I suppose - it takes place in the summer after season two. Lauren is not in this story, which means she and Puck are not dating; Sam is not in New Directions as he had to move away; and none of the new season three characters like Sugar or Rory or whomever else are in this. Just to make that clear. (Simply because I started writing this before s3 started, and I'm not going to go back through and randomly insert them in places. ;D LOL, plus I like the vibe of the story better this way.)

**Pairings:** Finnchel; Klaine; Quick; Brittana; Chang-Chang; Mercedes/?; Artie/? (The '?' will be revealed later on. Mwuhaha ;) ) Also, possible love triangle for a certain couple. Read to find out! ;D

It is both character and plot-driven, but I hope that even if I don't have your favorite couple paired up in this, you'll still read the story purely for the story, at least. :)

**Genre:** Action/Adventure; Romance; Comedy; Mystery; Suspense; Drama…. - So, essentially, a healthy helping of everything! :D

Please remember to review! Seriously, even just a quick 'update soon' really gives me the encouragement to continue posting new chapters. Constructive criticism is also appreciated. Just don't flame, please (though I know my fellow Glee fanfic'ers are way too awesome to ever do that to anyone!).

P.S. Yes, I know the title is sort of cheesy. But it was either that or 'The Island.' Which is just too spot-on, I think. :P So there ya go. LOL.

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><p><span>Chapter One<span>

Rachel Berry's eyes blinked open but squeezed shut when a sharp ray of sunlight assaulted her pupils.

A groan escaped her lips. Her eyelids were heavy and gritty; her face felt like it was baking from a bright-white light.

A strange roaring filled her ears. Like the crashing of the surf….

She covered her face with her hands and opened her eyes against the shelter of her darkened palms. That was when she realized damp sand clung to her hands; some rubbed against her chin, her forehead.

_What the – ? _ Rachel thought, pulling her hands away. She tried to examine them through squinted brown eyes, but her pupils still hadn't adjusted.

It took her a groggy second later to realize she was soaking wet. Water was continuously lapping over her legs, up to her waist. Her long, dark hair dripped moisture. Everything smelled strongly of brine and salt.

She quickly sat up, forcing her eyes to stay open and adjust to the light. Her heart kicked into overdrive when she realized she was on a beach.

Waves nudged at her feet like dogs wanting attention. A beautiful ocean, clear as glass and as pale blue as the marvelous sky above, stretched out endlessly behind her. In front of her was sugar-white sand sprinkled with black pebbles, as if the land were the crumbs of a giant chocolate chip cookie. And even further before her was a forest of trees, giant and dark green, stretching almost as high as the puffy white clouds.

Rachel sprang to her feet. Her head was already dizzy, and the sudden movement caused for her to promptly fall to her knees and puke what appeared to be swallowed sea water into the sand.

Her throat felt rubbed raw; her eyes stung something fierce. Her entire body was trembling, and her drenched clothes felt heavy and uncomfortable against her.

She was overwhelmed with confusion and terror. Her stomach roiled. _God, I hope I don't throw-up again,_ she thought. She'd always hated that terrible feeling, the way her whole body convulsed. She actually detested ever feeling even a little sick, even as much as a minor headache. Not because she was a baby or anything, but because then she might not feel in top-notch performing mode.

_Where am I?_ was Rachel's next thought. And then, as if those three words were the key to cracking some code, her memories rushed back to her.

And like a slap to the face, like a punch to the gut, Rachel realized where she was and why she was there. And the thought made the always-optimistic and always-cheerful Rachel Berry burst into tears.

"I remember!" she gasped to herself. "Oh my God, no, no, no, I remember!"

The prelude of events fell in a steady row of dominoes, one horror ticking after the other.

_Boarding the airplane, taking her seat in the back. Complaining loudly to whoever would listen: "I should be up in the front; the air back here feels too stale. It might clog my vocal chords, and then how will I be able to hit the high-F during my next solo?" _

_She was in a window seat, next to Mercedes Jones. The dark pink of Mercedes' headband was vivid in her memory._

_The gentle _click_ when Rachel buckled her seatbelt. For some reason, in her memories, this sound effect played more than once._

Click, click, click.

_Looking out the window._

_The plane taking off._

_Mercedes and Rachel looking through a fashion magazine together; Mercedes, because she genuinely was interested in fashion, and Rachel, because the act of sharing made her feel like she really did have friends._

_And then, sometime later:_

_The turbulence hitting the airplane, so hard that her teeth had rattled. Her fear, raw and real and encompassing, squeezing the very breath from her lungs._

"_Please fasten your seatbelts," the pilot had said. "We're hitting a patch of particularly violent turbulence."_

_And then, suddenly, the back of the plane, where Rachel was seated, had ripped away._

_Screaming, screaming, so much screaming. The horrible, horrible feeling of freefall; for the briefest of seconds, suspended in midair. Time stopped, nothing moved, they were floating. Then down, down, falling, falling._

_A chain of hands held tightly: Blaine Anderson and Mercedes and Rachel gripping each other so tightly that fingernails dug into soft flesh, puncturing the skin of their palms in half-moon shapes. Rachel's eyes squeezed shut, not going to open them, no, don't look, this is not happening. Screaming, screaming._

_Hitting the water: a sound like a _boom!, _freezing-cold water rushing all around them. The tickles of thousand of bubbles forming around her._

She had been knocked out. She knew she must have been, the impact of the ocean slamming against her body had knocked her out, and she couldn't remember anything after that.

But she had been saved, she must have been. Somehow washed ashore, somehow _here_, living and breathing and, yes, now crying harder than ever. The initial shock of where she was had left quickly, leaving way for fear and sadness.

Where were Mercedes and Blaine? She'd been sitting right next to Mercedes. And Blaine had been sitting on the other side of Mercedes, in the aisle seat. Where were they!

Where were the other people in the back of the plane? She hadn't known any of them, as the rest of the Glee Club had been in the middle of the plane, but she couldn't see anyone else around.

Rachel desperately looked out to the ocean. But she could see nothing; no giant hunks of plane still sinking, no billowing smoke. The back of the plane must already be making its way to the bottom of the ocean. She had no clue where the rest of the airplane was, if it had also crashed into the water or somehow, miraculously, maybe stayed in the air? She didn't know how airplanes worked, how quickly it would fall apart if it lost the backend. She had never had to know that kind of information before, but suddenly it felt very important. Life or death, literally.

She was alone; everyone else was probably dead! But just as the thought crossed her mind, she spun to her left – no one – but then spun to her right and spotted a figure about a hundred yards down the beach.

It was a body.

Praying it was Blaine or Mercedes or anyone else she knew, she ran toward it. She felt ready to pass out from exhaustion, but adrenaline coursed through her, keeping her legs pumping forward.

When she reached the body, her heart sank.

Disappointment popped her hope like sharp needles to an inflated balloon; she could feel her muscles sagging, dragging her down, heavy disappointment draining the remaining energy from her.

The guy was unfamiliar to her. She hadn't realized how much she'd been hoping it was one of her fellow Glee Club members until now. Not that she wasn't glad that this person was lying before her without any visible injuries. But was wishing for just _one_ of her friends to be okay too much to ask?

Rachel kneeled beside him. The sand felt hotter over here, as they were several yards up from the spray of the ocean. She could feel the blistering sun baking her clothes dry; sweat began streaming from her hairline.

She rolled the person over, gingerly, carefully. She was almost afraid to do so – what if his face had horrible, unsightly wounds? But there was no sign of blood around his prone figure, so she hoped he wouldn't have any chunks of skull missing or whatever.

She'd turned him onto his back and was relieved by the sight before her. No terrible injuries for her to deal with. In fact, there wasn't even a bruise discoloring his face, nor were there cuts or any bleeding areas.

His chest rose and fell steadily, as if he were in a deep sleep. Rachel was glad she wouldn't have to perform CPR, because as glorious as it would feel to get to be a real hero, she had always been afraid of having to administer CPR and messing it up and resulting in somebody's death.

Even with his eyes closed, unconscious, she could tell he was attractive. He had a long, lean body dressed in a plain gray T-shirt and dark jeans with tennis shoes. His clothes looked brand new and fairly expensive.

His hair was jet-black, shiny and almost tinted blue in the sunlight. It was cut in sharp angles, as if his barber were a swordsman – his silken locks appeared side-swept, framing his forehead and ending just below his ears. _Kind of like an elf's haircut_, Rachel thought.

He had a light tan, smooth skin. Nice nose. Dark eyelashes splayed from his closed eyelids.

Rachel was taken aback by his beauty. For some reason, even though he didn't resemble him, this guy reminded her of Finn. Probably because they were both attractive. And thinking about Finn made Rachel want to cry all over again. But, no, she had to solider on.

She knew he was dehydrated. His lips bore squiggles of cracks all down them, and his skin was growing so pallid that it almost matched the white of the sand all around them.

The guy stirred.

She leaned over him and gently shook his shoulders. Water dripped from the ends of her hair and splashed onto his dry clothes.

A small moan emitted from his lips.

Rachel nudged him repeatedly in the side.

Finally, his lids blinked open, revealing eyes that were an impossible shade of palest, prettiest blue. He stared at her blankly, confused. Rachel would've felt bad for him if she weren't too busy feeling bad for herself.

"You need water," she said matter-of-factly. Her voice was extremely hoarse.

A brief worry that her singing voice may be damaged flashed through her, but amazingly, Rachel pushed that thought aside. For once, and probably the only time in her whole life, this was _not_ the time to worry about singing. Surviving came first. (Well, it's not like she could be a Broadway legend six feet under the ground. – Okay, so maybe her love of music was always somewhere in the back of her mind.)

The guy tried to sit up, but another moan left his mouth before he slumped back onto the sand.

Rachel jumped to her feet. She wanted nothing more than to go to sleep for a very long time, but anything besides taking action was out of the question right now. They needed fresh water. She was dehydrated, too – she could feel the thirst starting to eat away at her, and her throat was unbelievably sore – but this man was life-or-death parched.

This whole day was a waking nightmare, but Rachel couldn't dwell on her terrible misfortune right now. The real Rachel Berry was springing to life; brushing off the grime of the day, rolling back her shoulders, and preparing to stare life straight in the eyes. She never let anything get the best of her – not being Slushied by the jock-brains at school, not the Cheerios' constant insults, not when she'd had laryngitis, not when she'd nearly undergone a nose job due to feeling such low self-esteem – so she sure as hell wasn't going to let a brush with death win.

She was Rachel-freaking-Berry, for goodness' sake! She made her own luck, coursed her own path; master of her own destiny.

Filled with new purpose and searing with that high of determination, Rachel slapped her hands together to dislodge the grimy, damp sand from her palms.

"Stay right there," she told the guy. Kind of one of those stupid things to say, since the weakened guy wasn't going to be up and traipsing around anytime soon, but still. "I'm going to…" she paused to cough against her scratchy throat. "…find us some water." It was beginning to hurt to swallow her own saliva; she needed water, craved for it more than anything.

The man's eyes started to roll into the back of his head; Rachel slapped his face. He startled awake.

"Remain conscious!" she barked. A bossy tone helped disguise the plea and panic within her. "I don't want you dying on me."

On heavy legs that felt weighted down by cement blocks, Rachel began marching toward the jungle. There was nothing to the left and right of her but miles of sand, so her only choice was to search for a babbling brook or some other source of fresh water out in the jungle.

She squared her shoulders, prayed a quick but fervent prayer to God that she would quickly find what she was looking for, and entered through the wall of trees, ducking under a branch dripping moss.

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><p>"Oh my God! His leg! Where's his leg? Oh my God!"<p>

"HELP ME! SOMEBODY, HELP ME!"

"Does anybody know CPR? Please, CPR, over here!"

Chaos. Total and utter chaos, everywhere you looked.

Screams – primal, high-pitched, wailing screams from the deepest kind of terror and panic. The sounds of sobs, of shouting, of bitter cursing.

Finn Hudson stood in the middle of it all, neck swiveling left and right as his wide eyes tried to take it all in at once. Other than that, he was as still as a statue; his legs seemed to be frozen, his feet must be rooted right into the sand.

He saw things without processing them. He didn't understand what was going on: it was like when he looked at one of those fancy abstract paintings – he knew there were shapes, knew the basic colors used, and knew it was supposed to host both intricacies and a bigger picture, but he just couldn't wrap his brain around it or appreciate it. He couldn't _comprehend_ it, like right now. He might as well have been watching this from a television screen in Mars from how _there_ and attached he felt to the horrific scenes unfolding all around him.

And the worst part of all was, most of the people were people he knew. Most of them were his _friends_.

There was Kurt Hummel, his very own step-brother, helping Noah "Puck" Puckerman and Mike Chang pull people from the wreckage of the burning plane.

There was Quinn Fabray, his ex-girlfriend, emerging from the ocean. Shivering and sopping wet and wiping both the sting of sea water and tears from her eyes, she was one of the few who had somehow been lodged from the plane and into the ocean.

Well, the few from the middle of the plane. She had been just a row away from the back of the plane, torn off way back when it had still been in the air. Who knew what had happened to all of those people – they'd probably all drowned, Finn figured.

This thought should've evoked some sort of powerful emotion within him, but he felt nothing at all.

Just numbness.

Just shock, surprise, not understanding.

The few other people who had been knocked into the sea when the nose of the plane had crashed right there – about two hundred yards away to where Finn was standing – hadn't made it to shore yet.

Finn knew all the people in the cockpit and the very front aisles of the plane were dead. They had to be. The entire nose of the plane had hit the ground so hard that it had crunched up and around, slamming through the very earth and making a sort of crater all around it.

But the people in the middle of the plane were alive – most injured, ranging from miraculously minor or not at all to severely hurt – and some who had already climbed out of their own accord were going back in to help the others.

Then there were those around Finn who were on the verge of death. Like the man who had lost his leg; he was completely unconscious, but a woman was kneeling beside him and desperately trying to staunch the blood by throwing great fistfuls of sand all over it.

The person who had called for CPR was finally aided by an older woman who rushed over and immediately began administering it to the young man lying still on the ground.

Finn's eyes returned to Quinn; she was hurrying over to Santana Lopez, who was yelling at the top of her lungs: "Brittany! Where's Brittany?"

Quinn tried to put her hand on Santana's arm to console her, but Santana pushed her away. "I need to find Brittany; please, Quinn, you've got to help me!" Finn could hear her shout from where he was, even though she didn't need to because Quinn was standing right next to her.

Finn looked out into the water and saw two bodies wash ashore; he didn't recognize either of them. Something in his mind said _go help them!_, but something in his legs said _no, stay here_. He was torn.

Too late – they were already being aided, hauled ashore by people Finn did not recognize.

It was hard to hear above all of the other noises around him, but a distinct sound caught Finn's attention. It was a male voice shouting for help, but what was unusual about it was that it came not from any of the scenes before him, but from the jungle to his left.

And something in that scream, something about looking out at those tall, sturdy trees, made Finn snap out of it. He didn't just stand there, doing nothing, feeling lost and out of sorts, but instead, he _finally_ sprang into action. He bolted after the sound, straight into the jungle.

His long, football-star legs and strong arms pumped incredibly fast.

Fast, fast, faster than any other speed he'd ever attempted in his life.

Finn burst into the jungle. Immediately, it was so much quieter here, almost tranquil. All of the screams and shouting melted away. All he could hear was the sound of birds chirping, ironically cheerful. The lighting was dimmer in here, the air cooler. It even smelled better, like clean pine and evergreen.

Finn strained his ears, waiting to hear the person's cry for help. A moment later, they yelled again. It came from his right. "_HELP ME, PLEASE! HELLO? ANYBODY? HE-ELP!"_

After a minute or two of running and dodging past tree branches, Finn found the source of the yell. It was a person, a boy who looked to be his age, stuck up in a tree.

"Hello?" Finn called upward. "I'm here!"

And then the realization of who the person was up in that tree came. It arrived in a fresh wave of panic hitting him hard and fast.

Artie Abrams.

Artie! It was Artie. His friend and fellow Glee Club member. The same Artie who was bound to a wheelchair due to being paralyzed from the waist down. Artie's wheelchair was nowhere in sight, somewhere back in the cargo of the plane, but there was the boy himself, clinging for dear life.

He was at least forty branches up, his legs uselessly dangling half-on, half-off a branch. He had his arms wrapped tightly around the trunk.

"Finn! Is that you?"

"Yeah, buddy, it's me! Do you need any help?" Finn felt stupid the second after he'd asked it.

"Nah, you know, I'm just…uh…hangin' out here." Artie's light-hearted joke lost its comedic effect due to the tremors of terror reverberating through his voice.

"Okay, I'm going to climb up there for you," Finn called up, his hands cupped around his mouth. "Just don't move, okay?" Um…_duh._

He heard Artie give a weak chuckle at Finn's dumb comment. "Okay," he called down. "I won't move. I don't even think I can; my arms are basically glued to the tree from fear. I can't even open my eyes; I'm too afraid of looking down and then fainting to my death. Which would, you know, frankly be too girly of a way to die."

When Artie was particularly nervous, he babbled. Which was what he was doing now. The entire time Finn climbed up the tree, Artie rambled on about this and that, some topics pertinent to the situation and some not.

It took Finn a good fifteen minutes to climb the tree. Occasionally he called up encouraging words to Artie or faked a laugh at one of his half-hearted jokes, but mostly he spent all his concentration on not falling. Some of the branches weren't all that sturdy, and Finn hadn't climbed trees since he was a kid, and never any this big anyway.

"Hey, Finn, you know what's weird?" Artie asked when Finn was about six or seven branches down from him.

"What?"

"Um, I think I've been too afraid to notice it until a few minutes ago, but, uh…I can feel my legs. They're tingling all over."

Finn stopped dead in his tracks.

"What?" he repeated.

It was hard to tell, since he'd been speaking in an overly calm tone since Finn had arrived, but Finn thought he heard some notes of shock and delight in Artie's tone when he spoke.

"Yeah, I, uh…" Artie's voice suddenly turned to one of pure, unbridled awe. "I'm wiggling my toes right now, and…I…just bent my kn-knees." A joyful sniffle punctuated this.

"Oh my God!" he said. "Oh…my…GOD! I CAN FEEL MY LEGS! FINN, OH MY GOD, I CAN FEEL MY LEGS!"

Finn was too shocked to move, but a giant grin stretched across his face. Artie gave a great whoop of excitement, and Finn started laughing. A wonderful kind of laughter that eased his fears, like balm to the wounded soul. Soon, Artie was also laughing in delight. It was a splendid moment, a true miracle, and the two boys paused to take it all in. Temporarily, there was no plane crash. There were no dead bodies, or bleeding arms and legs, or screams of terror. There was only the fact that Artie Abrams was no longer paralyzed, and that single fact made everything feel right in the world.

Finn climbed up enough branches to where he was just one below Artie. "Do you think you could climb down? Now that you're legs work. I'll still be below you, ready to help you if you start to fall."

"Well, my legs are still really tingly, like there are all of these feathers on the inside of my skin, tickling my nerves. It would be uncomfortable if it weren't the _best freaking feeling_ I have ever had in my life!" Artie said. Finn could hear the smile in his voice. "But damn it all to hell if I'm not going to try."

And so the two boys began climbing slowly but surely down the tree. Twice, Finn had to help Artie down a particularly large gap between branches, but other than that, they had no problems. Finally, they were both safely on the ground. And finally, they were _both_ able to stand upright, on their legs.

Standing. Legs working. On the ground.

Artie couldn't believe it. He and Finn shared a huge bone-crushing hug. You didn't go through this kind of thing together and then _not_ hug afterward. Screw manliness; they were safe, and Artie's legs worked again, and Finn had helped someone out instead of just watching it all.

When he put one leg in front of the other for the first time in nine long years, Artie burst into tears. So many different emotions surged through him, overwhelming him. Finn patted Artie on the back as he cried. It took a while for Artie to regain composure, and then his tears transformed into the happiest of laughter.

But then they had to start walking out of the jungle and back to the beach again. Back to the reality of the horrible scene waiting for them.

After a few minutes of walking in a companionable silence, Artie spoke up.

"So, is everyone…" he couldn't bring himself to ask the question.

He took a deep breath, drawing in strength to try again. "Is everyone…um, are they all…alive?"

Finn sucked a shaky breath through puckered lips and patted Artie on the shoulder. "Um, yeah, dude, I think they are. At least, I know Kurt and Puck and Mike are alive. And so are Quinn and Santana."

A beat of uncomfortable silence before Artie had to ask it: "What about the others? The rest of us?"

"I don't know, man," Finn said against a sudden tightness in his throat. He eyes felt all prickly; he suddenly had to blink. A lot. "I didn't see anybody else we know."

Artie pressed his lips together into a thin line. His heart thudded slowly and miserably against his chest, as if it were beating to the tune of a funeral march. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and repositioned his glasses, which had thankfully been neither damaged nor lost when he had been flung from his seat and landed amidst the trees.

This must be his truly lucky day – which was the surest type of irony, considering it took a plane crash to make it happen. But he'd landed safely in a tree, high up, but with not a broken bone or a sprain to show for it. Only a few scratches that would scab over, and a few splinters he'd already plucked from his palm. He still had his glasses, so he could see.

Oh, yeah, and there was the small case that his paralysis had been suddenly and randomly healed and he now he could _walk_. And run and jump and skip and _dance!_ Yes, he could now dance!

Artie was undergoing a weird battle of emotions: joy and shock and relief were dominant, but he also felt worried sick over his friends and the leftover fear of when the plane had been hurtling toward the ground.

About five minutes later, they'd reached the tree line. They walked out of the jungle and onto the beach. It was a bit calmer now than it had been. Everyone who wasn't badly injured was helping out those who were, using kind voices to try to placate the situation.

Quinn and Santana were darting up and down the beach, calling for Brittany.

Quinn's shouts were in the defeated manner of someone who thought it was useless to do so but was trying to help out their friend; Santana's, however, were loud and desperate and unceasing. They were more or less jogging around in a circle, their hands shielding the sun from their eyes as they scanned the clusters of people for Brittany.

Artie and Finn exchanged saddened looks at this. Artie couldn't bear the thought of Brittany being harmed, let alone…no, he wasn't even going to so much as _think_ the awful word. Finn bit his lower lip and tucked his hands into his jeans pockets.

"I just can't believe it," Finn muttered. "It's all so crazy."

Suddenly, Kurt and Mike burst from the jagged-hole opening of the plane. They each had their arms loaded with suitcases. Finn figured that they had already rescued all of the people they could from inside, so now they were getting out all of the luggage. He noticed an impressive stack of bags and suitcases toward where Quinn and Santana were pacing.

But there was something wrong. Kurt and Mike were sprinting as if their lives depended on it, yelling at people to "_move, move; get further down the beach!"_ They had panicked looks on their faces. They passed by the luggage pile, threw the suitcases they carried onto it, and then fell to the ground. They covered the back of their head and necks with their hands and buried their faces in the sand.

Next, Puck bolted out of the plane's hole, a body slung over one of his broad shoulders.

He waved his free arm through the air, his eyes practically bugging out of his face. "EVERYBODY, RUUUUUUUNNNNNNN!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.

He had gotten about fifty feet away from the plane when the whole thing blew up.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you all for the reviews, favoriting, and subscribing; it really does mean a lot to me. :D Please remember to keep reviewing!

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><p><span>Chapter Two<span>

"Hi," Blaine said, cupping Kurt's chin with his thin fingers.

"Hi yourself," said Kurt, giving Blaine a shy smile.

Blaine's brow puckered above his eyes, big and dark brown; his full lips grew pouty. "Oh no." He brushed his fingers gently through Kurt's hairline, revealing a large purplish bruise. "Are you okay?"

"Now I am," Kurt said, a little breathless at Blaine's intoxicating nearness and tender touch.

They shared a gentle smile. Then, in perfect synchronicity, their eyes fluttered shut and they tilted their heads a bit to the right. They brought their lips together in a pressing, smacking kiss. The kiss was fueled by both relief that they were alive and by a sweet kind of desire.

Blaine grinned against the kiss, his heart giving a flutter. He opened his eyes, still smiling.

But instead of standing on a beach with Kurt, he opened his eyes to trees looming up all around him. He was lying on hard ground of greenest grass. Confused, the smile slipped from his face.

Blaine used his elbows to push himself into a sitting position. He looked around at the jungle setting; his stomach lurched with disappointment. It had been a dream; a sweet, wonderful dream, that had felt so real. But now, he was here.

Which was…_where_, exactly?

He got to his feet, stumbling a bit as he did so. He was disoriented and his head was pounding something fierce. He brought his hand to his forehead and it came back slicked with bright red blood. His eyebrows rose in alarm; he felt sick to his stomach.

_Oh, God,_ he thought. A wave of dizziness hit him.

He suddenly remembered the plane crash. Falling through the air. Hitting the cold water….

_He, Mercedes, and Rachel's three seats were connected together; they all started sinking, still clenching each other's hands with all their might._

_The impact knocked Rachel out, but he and Mercedes remained conscious. Blaine unbuckled his seatbelt and started kicking and flailing toward the surface. They had sunk quickly, already a good three yards beneath the surface in half a minute. Blaine looked down and saw that Mercedes' seatbelt was stuck; she tugged at it desperately, clawing at buckle, but it was no use. Mercedes began kicking her legs, but she didn't have enough power to lift the seats up. _

_Next, Blaine noticed that Rachel was unconscious, her head lolled to the side and air bubbles puffing from her nostrils._

_Blaine flipped himself over so he could swim downward. His lungs felt an uncomfortable pressure; he was good at holding his breath, but it wouldn't be much longer until he'd have to breathe._

_The water was clear enough to open his eyes in and see what was going on. The salt water stung, but that was the least of his problems right now._

_At least the seats were sinking a lot slower now, travelling only about an inch per second rather than multiple feet per second. _

_He watched as Mercedes reached over and popped the release button on Rachel's buckle; her seatbelt gave way, and Mercedes shoved Rachel out of her seat and used both of her hands to push upward on the bottom of Rachel's dark red ballet flats._

_Rachel began to float to the surface, but much too slowly. Being unconscious, she wasn't holding her breath like Blaine and Mercedes were, so she was already drowning._

_Blaine swam down as fast as he could and finally reached Rachel. He wrapped both of his arms around her waist and held her tightly against him. He met Mercedes' gaze; she continued trying to get her seatbelt to unbuckle, but the look in her eyes told him plainly to rescue Rachel first and then come back for her._

_But would there be enough time?_

_Transferring every ounce of strength to his legs, Blaine kicked and kicked and kicked. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. His heart was zooming unbearably fast. Finally, _finally_, he reached the surface. His head broke through and he inhaled the sweet, beautiful, wonderful air. He lifted Rachel's head up, having to dunk himself back down to do it._

_He gave her the Heimlich maneuver the best he could while under water, as he couldn't do CPR without being on a flat surface. Thankfully, she hadn't inhaled as much water as he'd thought; the Heimlich opened her airways enough to have her cough out a good deal of water, but though she had rid herself of it, she was still unconscious._

_Blaine prayed that Mercedes would make it. He knew how terrified and panicked she must be feeling right now. He'd never exactly been a religious person, but he'd always believed in a Higher Power, and he figured now was a particularly good time to enlist some Almighty help._

_He wanted desperately to swim back down for Mercedes and help her, but that would mean leaving Rachel. And considering one was unconscious and completely helpless while the other was – hopefully – still conscious and had some fight left in her, he knew what he had to do._

_He saw land not too far in the distance. Bobbing against the waves, he used every bit of adrenaline and strength in him to swim to shore with Rachel pinned to his side._

_He was so concentrated on saving himself and Rachel that he didn't even notice when something shot out of the sea behind him and went up, up, up into the air._

_He didn't even hear the shouts of "_Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!"

_Finally, he reached the shoreline. He dragged Rachel about ten feet up the beach before sinking to his knees. He turned her onto her back and prepared to give her CPR, thankful for his one summer lifeguarding down at the local pool._

_But it turned out he didn't need to resuscitate her, because she was breathing and her heart was at a normal beat._

_Panting, Blaine sat cross-legged for a while, shaking all over._

_He couldn't stop picturing the sight of Mercedes hopelessly kicking and so desperately clawing at her seatbelt. Or the bravery and sureness that had flashed in her eyes, telling Blaine that he needed to save Rachel. And he couldn't stop remembering that horrible sound of the back of the plane detaching from the rest of the plane – a sucking and a ripping. That, and the sound of everybody screaming, played in a loop around his head, a sadistic soundtrack._

_Blaine, Mercedes, and Rachel had been sitting closer toward the middle of the plane than everyone else in their section; Blaine figured the others must've died or somehow swam to another part of shore. The first option was not at all comforting to him._

_After a little while, his thirst hit him full force. He needed to go get some water, but he didn't want to leave Rachel alone. But as he didn't know how long it would take her to come to, he figured he should find a fresh water supply, so he could provide hydration for her when she did wake up._

_He trekked into the jungle, hoping he wouldn't meet up with some wild animal or smoke monster or something._

Blaine hadn't traveled far when he'd tripped over a hidden tree root. On the way down, he must have hit his head on a sharp rock, knocking him out. He felt at the tender spot producing blood and found there was a large, knotted bump toward the right of his forehead. The bottom of the bump sported a shallow gash that had oozed blood down his face.

He wasn't bleeding anymore, but the blood hadn't yet dried to his face; thus, his fingers were wet with his own red liquid. The sight and rusty smell of blood always made Blaine's stomach turn.

He wasn't as soaked in sea water as he'd been when he'd arrived at shore (how long ago was that anyway? Thirty minutes? Forty? More?), but he was still considerably damp. The only part of him that still dripping was his thick, curly dark hair. The salty water it dribbled down his face mingled into his wound and made it sting.

So not only did he have a splitting headache – probably the result of a mild concussion – , but he also had a stinging slash on his forehead. Wonderful.

He didn't know how long he'd been out, so he figured it was best to check on Rachel before searching for a fresh water supply. What if she had already waken up, scared and alone?

He hadn't even taken two steps in the direction toward the beach when he heard the sound of twigs snapping beneath clumsy feet.

And then: "_Blaine!"_

He whipped around and was met with the beaming face of none other than Rachel Berry. The two locked eyes and an audible sigh of relief left their mouths in unison.

"Rachel!" Blaine exclaimed, smiling. "Oh, thank God, you're up!"

"And you're alive!" Rachel squealed, tears filling her eyes.

They ran to each other and embraced tightly. They weren't in this alone anymore; they at least had each other, and having just one friendly, familiar face with them right now might as well have been the company of a whole crowd of people.

They pulled apart, holding each other at arm's length. Like the way two old friends would examine one another after being separated for years.

"Oh, God, Blaine! Your head!" Rachel winced, gesturing toward the sizeable knot protruding from his forehead. She made a face at all the blood drying down the right side of his face.

Blaine released Rachel and used the bottom of his damp black Polo shirt to wipe away some of the blood. "Yeah, I tripped and hit my head on a rock," he explained. "It hurts like you wouldn't believe, but it's no big deal."

Seeing his injury made Rachel feel a little guilty that she was virtually unscathed. You know, unscathed besides some emotional scarring and the fact that she now yearned for water almost more than she desired a legendary Broadway career. That was '_almost_ more.'

"So, are you okay?" Blaine asked. "An inane question, considering, I'll admit. But you don't look like _your_ forehead decided to grow an egg, so I'm guessing you aren't hurt too badly?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Rachel said, her voice even more hoarse than before. "I'm just really dehydrated."

"Okay, well, that's what I was doing out here." Blaine motioned around at all of the trees. "Searching for some drinkable water. How about you go back to the beach and lay down? I'll come and get you if I find anything."

Rachel started to protest, but Blaine interrupted her.

"Rachel, I know I'm not exactly a certified doctor, but you and I both know that it isn't good to go walking around when you're dehydrated. My arms may look manly and buff, but if you pass out, I don't think I can pull a Mr. Hero and easily carry you off into the sunset," Blaine said.

Rachel smiled at that last part and gave a weak laugh. She felt too tired to argue with him; her eyelids kept trying to droop closed. But she wasn't one to back down from what she wanted. "I don't know," she hedged. "I don't want you alone out here." Suddenly, she remembered the guy on the beach. "Oh! By the way, there's somebody else. Back at the beach. Maybe I should go and stay with him, and you can look for the water?"

Blaine's perfectly-groomed eyebrows shot skyward. "Really? Who?" There was no mistaking the raw, naked hope crackling from his tone like sparks of flint desperate to catch into fire.

"Oh, Blaine," Rachel said softly. Every part of her wilted with sorrow. "If it were Kurt, I would've said so right away."

Blaine was crestfallen. He hadn't really, truly expected for it to be Kurt; a logical part of him knew that Rachel would have told him right away, she wouldn't have just said 'somebody else,' but still… Treacherous hope had curled unbidden within him, both the greatest help and the greatest hindrance in his time of need.

Rachel patted Blaine's arm as he blinked rapidly. He ran the soft sleeve of his cherry red cardigan under his nose and looked away.

Then something suddenly occurred to him that sharpened his focus and pushed aside the sharp pangs of sorrow.

"Wait… There was somebody else on the beach? That's odd. There wasn't anyone else when I was last there after swimming us to shore. I don't see how someone could've washed ashore so long after falling into the ocean; you'd think they'd've drowned."

Rachel's brows knit together in confusion. "Actually…the guy wasn't wet."

"Wait…what?"

"Yeah. He was dry as a bone. I remember leaning over him, and some water dripping from my hair onto his dry shirt. There is no way he could've been in the ocean, because he would still be at least a little bit damp. Even your shirt hasn't dried all the way, and you've been away from the beach for who knows how long at this point."

"Definitely strange," said Blaine. "How injured was he?"

"Not at all."

"How could he not be at all injured if he didn't fall into the water? That means he would've had to have fallen onto the _sand_, and then every bone in his body would be broken. And if not that, he'd at least have a _bruise_, right?" Blaine gave a disbelieving laugh.

Rachel nodded slowly, only half comprehending. She was so thirsty that the mysterious male's lack of injuries and dryness didn't matter all that much to her. She just wanted to drink and drink and drink cold, glorious, fresh water until she felt she'd burst.

Blaine, ever attune to people's feelings and needs, sensed this. Well, also her increasingly pallid skin and the glazed look beginning to form in her eyes gave him a hint.

"We'll worry about all that later," he said gently. "Go back to the beach. Get some rest. I'll come get you when I've found some drinkable water."

Rachel nodded again, in a haze, and headed back the way she'd arrived.

Blaine waited until she was gone before continuing his exploration through the jungle. Thank the heavens, it didn't take him but five minutes until he heard the beautiful sound of a babbling brook. Like the sweetest of melodies to his ears.

He gulped up the clear, clean water from cupped hands. It was the best drink he'd ever had in his life. When he'd had enough to be satisfied, he went back to the beach for Rachel and the mysterious guy.

"I found a brook," he told her with a giant grin. But his grin turned into a frown when he saw her expression.

She looked out of it, her eyes fighting to stay open. She was pale, and her lips looked considerably more chapped than when he'd last seen her.

"Yay," she said in little more than a groggy whisper. "I'm so…" She looked momentarily dazed, and then came to again. "…Glad."

Blaine spotted the person Rachel must've been talking about, lying about a yard away. He was extremely good-looking, model-worthy. Blaine would guess he was eighteen or nineteen. The guy was awake but didn't look in any shape to be walking around.

_Great,_ Blaine thought. _This is going to be fun_. He was going to have to haul Rachel and the mystery man into the jungle, to the water. He didn't exactly have a water bottle with him to go fill up.

"Come on." Blaine helped Rachel up and leaned her against his right side. She wasn't heavy, but when he began walking with her toward the guy, she kept stepping on his feet.

Blaine pulled the guy to his feet and propped him onto his left side. Then, he began half-dragging Rachel and the guy, half-walking with them into the jungle. Their combined gait was irritatingly slow, but finally they reached the brook in twice the time it had taken Blaine to find it in the first place.

The guy had fallen asleep somewhere on the journey; Blaine had to dunk his head in the chilly water to wake him up. Then, Rachel and the mysterious male drank until they were sated. Since they'd lost all their energy trekking to the water, they both fell asleep beneath the cool shade of the trees right afterward.

Blaine watched as they peacefully slumbered, thinking that they should enjoy it while it lasted.

There weren't bound to be many more 'peaceful slumbers' while they were stranded on this island.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Wow! Thank you guys soooooo much for all of the wonderful reviews. :D It really does mean a lot. I hope you enjoy this next chapter; most of the chapters will be pretty long, just so you know. Please keep up the lovely reviews! They really do encourage me to update. XD

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><p><span>Chapter Three<span>

The explosion was louder, brighter, and hotter than Finn could've imagined. Those scenes in movies where things – buildings, submarines, cars, anything – explode didn't do reality justice; even from a good seventy feet away, Finn felt the impact through his bones. He felt the heat pressing down on him, making sweat stream from his hairline.

He ran as if his heels were on fire – which he feared they would be if he slowed down even a hair's length. He kept pounding his steps forward, one smoothly in front of the other, arms pumping furiously at his sides. There was only one thought, one word, echoing in his mind: _run, run, run, runrunrunrun._

He'd only been able to sprint about ten yards away before the shock waves of the explosion caught up to him; he felt as if a giant boot – God's boot, even – had swung from the sky and kicked him from behind. For a moment, he was flying through the air, and then, all too soon, he hit the ground and skidded to a grinding, painful stop.

Stunned, he just lay there for a moment, the wind knocked out of him. Keeping his cheek pressed to the hot, grainy sand, he tried to twist his neck to the side to see if Artie was lying close behind him. He figured he'd outrun him, being that Artie had just regained function of his legs and all.

The explosion was over, but its consequences were just now beginning. Finn could hear people yelling, calling out to each other, trying to see who had survived it and who had been consumed by the flame.

Finn didn't want to get up. He wanted to stay here, with his face pressed against the sand, forever. He wanted to catch his breath, which was slowly but surely returning to his lungs; and he wanted to close his eyes and fall into a deep sleep. He felt like he could sleep for a thousand years and still not wake up refreshed.

Slowly, he rolled onto his back before hoisting himself into a sitting position. Cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees, he surveyed the scene before him. He felt sick to his stomach; his mouth was dry as cotton.

First, he checked to see if Kurt was okay; he was, still prone behind the luggage pile, his hands still cupped around the back of his head and neck. Mike still lay safely beside him. Finn found himself breathing a shaky sigh of relief.

Next, his amber-colored eyes searched for anyone else he knew. He spotted Quinn and Santana, swimming back to shore. The explosion must have knocked them off the beach and back into the ocean. They dragged themselves back onto the wet lip of sand, their hair tangled around their shoulders and their faces wearing matching looks of misery.

Finn stood up and brushed the sand from the knees of his jeans. He wanted to go and help this time, not just stand around like an imbecile.

"Artie?" he called out, worry starting to show up like an annoying neighbor.

Nothing.

"Artie?" A little louder this time, more panicked.

"Over here!"

Finn whipped around to see Artie coming down from a hill not too far off into the distance. How on earth had he gotten over there?

Artie jogged toward Finn. He looked completely unscathed, not even as much as a bead of sweat on his forehead.

Still, Finn found it appropriate to ask. "You all right?"

"Um…" Artie adjusted his glasses, a strange look on his face. He squinted his eyes and didn't make contact with Finn's. "Yeah. I'm fine. How about you?"

"I'm not, like, blown up or anything," Finn said. He held his arms out in front of himself, examining his injuries. His elbows were pretty banged up, bleeding down his forearms, quite a bit of skin having been scraped off when he'd skidded into the ground.

For some reason, looking at it triggered the pain it held; the scrapes started burning and stinging. Badly.

"Ouch," Finn said, the word one of surprise.

The two boys headed toward the explosion. The bits of airplane that were left were smoldering, but luckily no fire was spreading into the trees.

"Is Puck okay?" Artie asked.

A lump hardened in Finn's throat. "I hope so. He was really close to the plane when it, like, combusted, but I'm sure he's fine. I mean, he's Puck – that dude can survive anything." But he didn't sound too sure.

Artie and Finn reached Kurt and Mike first. Mike was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the ocean; his countenance was unreadable, but his jet-black eyes were troubled. Kurt was organizing the luggage pile into stacks according to size; Finn knew that Kurt cleaned whenever he was stressed out.

"Hey," Finn said. Kurt set down a black suitcase, and he and Mike turned to face their two friends in near unison.

"Finn!" Kurt exclaimed, tackling his step-brother in a giant hug. There were tears in his blue eyes, and when he closed his lids tightly, they spilled down his cheeks. "Oh God, I didn't know if you were alive!"

At the embrace from his brother, Finn became choked up; his lower lip trembled as he hugged Kurt tightly. He didn't even feel awkward embracing another dude like this, their arms constricting around the other. He and Kurt were family; he loved the guy like he was the brother he'd never had. Because in a way, he was. … Well, okay, maybe more like the _sister_ he'd never had, but whatever. Family was family.

Mike was more preoccupied with gaping at Artie.

He tried to take in the sight of him standing, walking around. Mike just stared at him for a few moments, slack-jawed, before finding his voice. "A-Artie?" he asked. "You can…you can walk!"

Kurt pulled away from Finn and looked at Artie; an audible gasp left his mouth at the sight. "OhmyGod! Artie! Y-you're…how?"

Artie smiled so hard that the corners of his pale blue eyes crinkled. "I don't know. It's a freaking miracle! But I'm no longer paralyzed."

Mike and Kurt exchanged baffled but delighted looks. Kurt then turned to Finn, a questioning look in the eyebrow he raised. Finn nodded with a grin, confirming that they weren't imagining this.

"Wow!" Mike said, at a loss for more eloquent words.

"Well I'll be," said Kurt, planting his hands on his hips and cocking his head to the side. He gazed at Artie with an awe-struck expression. "Fry that up and call it a brisket."

Everyone lifted their eyebrows at him. Kurt gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle. "What? It's something my dad used to say all the time."

The boys all smirked at that. Then, Mike brought them back to the horrors of the present.

"It looks like the fire's burning itself out pretty quickly," he said, squinting toward the ashy leftovers of the plane. "Good thing the waves are washing away the flaming debris."

It looked like no one had been killed by the explosion; the fire had mainly stayed on the plane, and so the most anyone got were some nasty heat blisters that would pop eventually, and there was someone who was having assistance popping his dislocated shoulder back into place.

"There's Santana and Quinn," Kurt said, pointing to the two girls a little ways down the beach. Santana was curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth, while Quinn had a hand on her back, trying to console her.

"Let's go over to them," said Finn.

The foursome trooped over to their two other friends.

Even with her pale blonde hair matted and wet, and her eyes bloodshot from the thrashing ocean, Quinn still looked as beautiful and innocent as an angel.

Santana's ponytail had come out, and her long, dark hair tumbled around her shoulders, down her back. Silent tears streamed down her bronze cheeks, and her mouth opened and closed continuously like a gulping fish.

Quinn stared at her fellow Glee Club members, people whom she could never decide were her actual friends or not. But right now, loser status didn't matter. Popularity lost its meaning after multiple near death experiences. All in the same day, no less.

She'd seen Kurt and Mike earlier, but she hadn't known if Finn was okay. Seeing him looming above her, wearing his blue plaid flannel shirt, made her smile. He was just too lovably naïve to imagine being gone.

Her gaze fell upon Artie, and her hazel eyes practically popped out of her skull. "You're standing up!" she exclaimed. "You're actually here, standing up!" As if to demonstrate the concept, she jumped to her feet and took a step toward Artie. She reached out a French-manicured index finger – which had gotten chipped – and poked him on the shoulder.

"It's real," said Artie, grinning. "Totally real."

"Whoa," Quinn said. "That's…whoa. I'm so happy for you." Her tone was quiet, her smile weak; she _was_ happy for Artie, but she couldn't bring herself to exactly be leaping with joy. Not after everything that happened; not when Santana was a broken mess on the ground, rocking back and forth with those haunted tears glowing in her eyes.

And certainly not when she didn't know if Puck was okay.

"Hey, Santana," Finn said gently, kneeling down next to her.

"Where's…" The word left her lips in little more than a tortured whisper. She squeezed her eyes shut and frowned deeply when she said the name, as if it caused her physical pain to do so. "…Brittany?"

Mike and Artie exchanged looks; Quinn and Kurt stared at Santana with pity, worry, and sadness in their eyes; Finn inhaled a sharp breath, not knowing what to say. Where _was_ Brittany? Truth was, if she hadn't turned up already….

No one dared speak. What could they say? How could they answer that? They all desperately wanted to know if not just Brittany, but also Mr. Schuester and Tina, were safe. They all desperately wanted the answer to be 'yes.' They all wished they weren't put in this situation right now, where their friends could be badly injured, or lost somewhere, or no longer breathing.

It all, to put it quite simply, _sucked_.

"I said, '_where's_ _BRITTANY_'?" Santana repeated, screaming her best friend's name. She unwrapped her arms from around her legs and sat up. Her pretty face hardened as she glared at each of them in turn, not even seeming to realize the miraculous occurrence in Artie. Cold blame glinted within her dark eyes.

"Well?" She spat out the word.

"We don't know," Quinn said, biting down on her lower lip to keep it from quivering. She crinkled her cute, pert little nose and squinted her eyes, a trick she did to keep herself from crying. "But I'm sure she's okay, Santana. Just have a little faith."

Santana barked a bitter laugh. "'Have a little _faith_,' Quinn?" she echoed incredulously. "Are you freaking kidding me? We were just on a frigging plane crash, for crying out loud! All around us, people are dying, coughing up blood and other nasty stuff. We don't know where half of our – can't believe I'm saying the word – friends are, and you want me to '_have a little faith_'?" She fixed Quinn with a look that bluntly read: 'You're an idiot.'

"All right, all right, just calm down," Finn said in his best I'm-the-team-leader voice. "This whole situation blows big time – "

"No pun intended, I'm sure," Kurt muttered under his breath.

" – but that doesn't mean we can take it out on each other. Yelling at Quinn isn't going to help, so everybody, just take a deep breath," Finn finished.

"I'm going to go look for Puck," Mike said. "See if he, uh, made it away from the explosion."

The image of finding nothing but a Mohawk lying around gave Finn the wildest urge to laugh.

But that laugh expanding in his chest quickly turned into cold, biting fear. Puck may've been a jerk sometimes, and he may've done some things in the past that had really hurt Finn, but the dude was still his closest friend. The thought of anything happening to him made Finn want to go punch a wall and scream at the top of his lungs.

"I'll come with you," Quinn said suddenly and firmly. Everyone looked at her in surprise.

"What?" she snapped. "I'm not some useless princess who's just going to sit in the sun and file her nails or whatever. Puck's my friend, too, and I want to help look for him. And for Brittany, and Tina, and Mr. Schue."

Nobody had dared speak or even considered the _other_ three names yet. The names of their friends in the back of the plane. But hearing Quinn list those four people and not the missing trio made them all think about it.

About how the back of the plane had detached and crashed into the ocean. About how those three people had been back there. About how they were all dead; had to be, there was no way they could've survived.

They all knew everyone was thinking the same terrible thoughts, and so a long moment of silence passed between them. Heads bowed; expressions solemn. Their breathing rattled.

Kurt had to say something. The words rose up from within him, a tidal wave of emotions about to crash.

"I saw it happen," he said, his tone monotonous. Detached. "I…I saw the back of the plane rip off and get sucked away."

Quinn tried to discreetly brush away a few tears, but her sniffle was loud. Santana's mouth was pressed so tightly that it was white. Mike stood with his arms crossed, staring at the sand. Finn looked uncomfortable and kept shifting from foot to foot, kept fidgeting his hands at the hemline of his shirt; he didn't want to think about any of this…he didn't…he didn't want to even consider the idea that _she_ was hurt. His Rachel.

Kurt continued on with voicing his thoughts, gazing blankly out at the cerulean blue horizon. The puffy white clouds were like giant marshmallows. It would've appeared so serene and beautiful, but in light of what happened, it didn't seem all that charming.

The more he talked, the more he felt the slow stab of a knife twisting deeper and deeper into his heart; tears brimmed in his eyes, fraying his eyelashes into thick sections of triangles.

"Blaine was supposed to be sitting next to me, you know," Kurt said. No one knew whom he was talking to – to all of them, or to himself? But they all listened in a rapt silence, barely able to breathe.

"He wasn't supposed to be back there. But Tina has to have a window seat or she gets really sick during plane rides. She was going to switch with Puck, but he wasn't really paying attention to her. And you know good old, knight-in-shining armor Blaine. My Blaine. He overheard them and offered to switch with Tina.

"She could take the spot next to me, and he would take her aisle seat in the back of the plane. With Mercedes and Rachel. Blaine k-kissed…" The tears were now flowing freely down Kurt's face. He had to swallow back a sob before continuing.

"He kissed…he kissed me on the cheek, and he told me…" Kurt took a deep breath, but when he continued speaking, his tone was no longer detached; every syllable, every word rang with raw pain.

"He told me that we would continue our discussion over the best brand of designer cologne when our flight landed. And then we hit the turbulence and everything was shaking, and I turned around to check on Blaine. And that's when…th-that's when I saw it break apart, and he and Mercedes and Rachel were flying backward. And I saw it there – for a second, just a second – this look of complete and utter terror on Blaine's face. His eyes were so scared. So scared.

Then they were all gone. They're all gone. _Blaine_...he's…_g_-_gone_!" Kurt wailed the last word and then crumbled to the ground, his face buried in the palms of his hands. His shoulders trembled from his great, hiccupping sobs.

Loudly, and almost primal in his unbridled emotions, Kurt sobbed and sobbed, not caring about making a scene. For once, not caring about what other's thought of him.

All he wanted was Blaine to be there and hold him and kiss him and tell him to stop crying, silly, everything's going to be okay.

But there was no Blaine.

No Blaine. No Blaine. Those disgusting words – words that should never be spoken, words that should not exist in the same stratosphere – kept taunting Kurt, bouncing around in his brain, burned to the backs of his eyelids so he had to read them every time he blinked.

Santana surprised them all by being the one to try to soothe Kurt; she pulled him against her, wrapped her arms around his shivering frame, and nestled her head on his shoulder. "I know, I know," she whispered to him. "I get it, Kurt. I know." And she did, because Brittany wasn't here with her. And so she knew how much it hurt, had met that same twisting of the dagger in the heart.

Artie stayed with Santana and Kurt, patting them both on the back with either of his hands, looking a bit awkward but determined to help them.

Mike, Quinn, and Finn gave them a parting glance of concern before heading out to search for any of their other fellow Glee Clubbers. As much as they all understood the need to plop down, defeated, and cry their eyes out, they would rather be _doing something_ to occupy themselves. Feeding off their adrenaline and their spark to survive, they needed to find the others.

Because surely they were all fine, just fine and dandy.

They had to be.

…Right?

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><p>Mercedes' feet ached and her legs were starting to cramp. She took a break to do some proper stretches. She had been fast-walking for who knows how long, and her glittery gold wedges may've made for rockin' footwear in the fashion department, but they seriously failed in the 'providing comfort while hiking through the creepy jungle' department.<p>

At least the canopy of trees provided nice shade against the hot sun. Mercedes had almost completely dried out since being in the – shudder – ocean. She hoped her weave hadn't gotten all frizzy. Not that it mattered, being out here alone in the middle of nowhere. Who did she have to impress? That grove of trees? Or maybe that prickly bush over there?

She still couldn't wrap her brain around what had happened to get her here. If it hadn't been so _real_, if she hadn't experienced it, lived through it, then she never would've believed it.

But it _had_ happened….

_It felt like crashing into icy glass; slamming through the ocean with such an impact, Mercedes was surprised every bone in her body hadn't snapped._

_There were thousands, millions of air bubbles – some tiny and some giant – all around them, floating around in the crystal-clear, pale blue water._

_Her, Blaine, and Rachel's seats sank down, down, pulled by velocity. Mercedes had never been a fan of the ocean – one of her greatest fears was of sharks or some ancient sea monster roaring from the inky black depths of the sea._

_What happened was a bit of a blur. She remembered that her seatbelt had been stuck, constricting against her stomach like a hungry python. She remembered Blaine freeing himself and starting to swim upward. But then they'd both noticed that Rachel had been knocked unconscious._

_Mercedes had unbuckled Rachel and pushed her up; Blaine had swam back down for Rachel; Mercedes and Blaine had locked eyes, and a silent understanding had passed between them – save Rachel; save yourself, Blaine; and then Mercedes had desperately worked at her evil, stubborn buckle while watching helplessly as Blaine swam to the surface with Rachel._

_She had continued to sink further and further down. Her lungs burned; she feared they might literally explode soon. But she kept her lips in a tight, thin line, not dare opening them lest she accidentally breathe in water. The ocean water stung her eyes._

_She was at least fifty, maybe sixty feet down now. Or maybe lower, maybe higher – she had no clue how to gauge that sort of thing. She just knew that the surface was beginning to look like a mere pinprick of bright light way, way up; she just knew that the water was turning darker and colder. Her ears popped from the pressure._

_Finally, her buckle gave way. All of that consistent tugging and yanking on her part had finally worked! But she had no time to feel joyful – the surface was too far away, she'd never make it up there in time: she had to breathe_ now_. But damn it if she didn't try._

_Mercedes started kicking and thrashing her arms, panic overtaking her as she tried with all of her might to swim upward at a rapid pace. But her heavy wet clothing and weight were making it hard to do so. A dagger-sharp stab of panic made her gasp, thus sucking in water. It was a horrible, burning sensation. She tried to cough it out and inhale oxygen, but of course that meant she only breathed in even more water._

_She was officially drowning._

_Her racing heart settled into a scarily slow pace. Mercedes looked up at the surface, glittering way up above, and all she wanted in that moment was to be up there, able to breathe. All she wanted was to go up, up, up…._

_And then, suddenly, as if her wish had commanded the action, she _was_ going up, up, up. She felt a strange lightness all through her, as if her every muscle were floating – it was a wonderful sensation. She shot upward, so quickly that she caused the water around her to spin in a sort of whirlpool. Not even seven seconds later, in what should have taken minutes, she reached the surface._

_Like a cork popping from a bottle, Mercedes flew right out of the ocean, way up into the air. Ten feet. Twenty feet. Forty feet. She kept rising. She was equal parts terrified and thrilled; she was exuberant that she had just been saved from almost drowning, but she what on earth was going on here!_

_She coughed and spluttered all over herself, releasing her lungs of the water. They burned as she sucked in greedy gulps of air, but it was a sweet kind of burn. A relieved kind of burn._

_The sun was bright and warmed the cold ocean water on her skin._

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" _Mercedes screamed, her eyes practically popping from her head. Her jaw fell open. What had happened to make her get to the surface so quickly? And why was she still going upward?_

_She had to be over one hundred feet now; her stomach dropped at the sight of the ocean far below. She spotted land not too far into the distance. She was almost level with the tops of the trees._

_Mercedes pushed her arms outward, as if she were swimming, wanting to be on that land; and then, amazingly, she stopped flying upward and instead started heading in the direction her arms pointed toward._

Oh my God! _Mercedes realized. _I'm flying!

_And so she was._

_She didn't know how to control her speed at all – she could only go super-fast right now. But she was pretty good at directions, at instinctively knowing how to go left or right._

_A few minutes later, she could see the beach, the white sand dotted with glints of black below her. She thought she might've saw Blaine washed ashore, but that was probably just wishful thinking, considering it looked more like an ant from up here._

_She tried to get herself to stop and land in the sand, but she kept flying and flying until she was miles into the jungle. Her speed gradually declined until she lost momentum and then started falling downward. Thankfully, she'd slowed considerably by the time she hit the brown leaves and dark green moss of the forest floor. Still, it was like being dropped from a one-story building, and she landed right on her shoulder. It smarted but didn't dislocate – she knew she'd have a large bruise to show for it._

_Mercedes had sat up, a bit dazed, very confused. She didn't know how on earth she'd done it, but she had – she'd been _flying_, like freaking Peter Pan or something!_

That had been more than an hour ago. Mercedes had tried to fly again since then, but it hadn't worked. She had started to think maybe she'd imagined it all, but remembering the exhilarating, free feeling and the wind rushing through her hair and all the world stretched out before her, for her taking, had made her know she couldn't have dreamed something like that up. She'd never had an overactive imagination.

But maybe she hadn't flown – maybe God had pulled her up, had miraculously rescued her and landed her here? As much as Mercedes believed in God and His miracles, she just knew that wasn't it.

No, it had been _her_; she had felt this sort of…power within her. Like a vital part of her had finally woken up.

Though actually, literally _flying_ was definitely something worth musing over, Mercedes couldn't concentrate on it right now. She had to find food, water, and some place to provide as a shelter. Being out here, alone, in the middle of the jungle gave her the creeps; a few times, she'd heard the foreign roar of some strange animal, somewhere deeper in the jungle. She needed to get back to the beach, but where was it? Her goal was to find Blaine and Rachel (providing they were both actually still alive).

She tried to be optimistic, tried to convince herself that the two were safe, but she couldn't dwell on their fate right now. She had her own survival to worry about. Self-preservation was kicking into high-gear; every nerve was on edge, tensed for a fight.

She could feel blisters rubbing into the soles of her feet. She would have taken off her wedges and gone barefoot, but there were too many sharp, broken sticks and hidden rocks on the ground. And what if she accidentally stepped on a snake? She gave a violent shudder at the thought.

"I swear, I'm going to kill whoever invented high-heeled wedges as soon as I get back home," Mercedes muttered to herself. "I'm going to find the jerk and make _him_ troop through the jungle in these things."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks again for all of the lovely reviews and support! :D I'm sorry that it took me a while to update, but you know how busy life can get. However, I hope that the length of this chapter will make up for the time it took me to finally post it. As always, I hope you enjoy, and please remember to leave your feedback! XD

**EDIT - A quick but helpful note: **The character Damian introduced in this chapter is not at all based on Damian McGinty, the actor who portrays Rory on _Glee__. _My Damian and _The Glee Project_'s Damian are in no way related; I actually thought about changing my character's name after Damian McG won TGP, but I like it too much. I actually chose the name Damian as a _very_ loose inspiration from the character Damon on _The Vampire Diaries _(the sarcastic sense of humor and icy blue eyes and raven-black hair fit, but other than that, there is no other relation, and he does _not_, in my mind at least, look like a carbon copy of Ian Somerhalder). Anyway, I just wanted to put this here to avoid any confusion. :)

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><p><span>Chapter Four<span>

When Rachel awoke from her two hour nap, every muscle in her body ached. She felt as if she'd gotten tackled by McKinley High's largest linebacker – continuously. She stretched her sore arms over her head, groaning.

"Sleep well?"

Her tired, blinking eyes swept over to Blaine. He was sitting against the tree opposite from her, his legs sprawled lazily before him. The dark circles beneath his eyes indicated he hadn't had the luxury of a nap yet.

"Let's just say, I miss my Queen-sized bed with silky pillows," Rachel said, "but it's better than being permanently asleep at the bottom of the ocean…my face bloated and blue to the point of being unrecognizable…the handsome rescue men pull my body out, and when they perform the autopsy and see how beautifully structured my vocal chords are, the room is overcome with weeping that such a talented young ingénue died such a tragic death before Broadway ever got to meet her…."

Blaine stared at her. "Um, yeeaaahhh," he said. "That's the spirit."

She twirled a lock of her hair – which was a bit frizzy, very tangled, and (like the rest of her) reeked with the dried scent of ocean water – around her forefinger.

"So…Blaine…my being disoriented by my incredible thirst earlier, I never got to ask," Rachel began.

She scratched the top of her head, looking uncomfortable. This was odd for her, who never once backed down from an opportunity to ask questions and thrust herself into the spotlight.

"Yes?"

"Um…did you see Mercedes out here?"

Blaine moistened his lips and looked down at his hands, curling them tightly in his lap. "Um…" _What do you want me to say?_ He thought. _That, yep, I saw her merrily gallivanting through the forest, but I neglected to mention it to you? That she's here, she's just hiding from us, ready to spring out and yell, 'Boo'?_ Well, yeah, he knew that was exactly what Rachel wanted to hear; hell, it was exactly what Blaine wanted to be able to truthfully say.

However, he needn't think of a comforting way to tell Rachel that Mercedes hadn't made it, because his pause told her everything.

Rachel bit down on her bottom lip so hard that she almost drew blood. She looked away; her vision blurred with tears. "Oh," she said, softly enough that Blaine barely heard her.

She drew in a breath, deep and trembling, and gave a great sniff, collecting herself. When she'd blinked her tears away, she turned her solemn gaze to Blaine's.

"So it's just us," she said. Not a question, but a statement. A matter-of-fact statement that came out dripping sadness and disappointment rather than Rachel's usual can-do attitude.

Mercedes was one of her closest friends in Glee Club, despite all of the misunderstandings and diva stand-offs they frequently got into. A freeze-frame image of Mercedes throwing her head back with laughter popped into Rachel's mind.

Blaine scooted over to Rachel's tree and put his arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, it's just us," he said with a melancholic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, us and Mr. Random Hot Dude whom _you_ found." He squeezed his arm gently around her. "Let's not forget that we're still alive, without any life-threatening injuries. For now, that _has_ to be enough, okay?"

A weak but almost genuine smile inched up Rachel's lips. "Okay."

She put her arm around Blaine's waist. The two leaned into each other, their heads touching. Holding each other up, being the other's support beam.

For a while, they just sat like that, their eyes closed in the closest they could come to contentment. They tried their hardest not to entertain any negative thoughts, which translated into trying their hardest not to think at all.

* * *

><p>Some time later, 'Mr. Random Hot Dude' awoke.<p>

He sat up slowly, rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "_Urngh_."

"My sentiments exactly," Blaine said with a small smirk.

The guy's shoulders stiffened; he dropped his hands from his face and took in the presence of the boy and girl before him. He looked shocked.

"Where the hell am I?" he demanded. Accusing. As if it were _their_ fault he were there.

Rachel fixed him with a hard look that lacked any sort of sympathy. His bad attitude was _so_ not appreciated right now. Especially when he already had some suspicious and mysterious strikes against him.

"You're in a fabulous spa filled with people ready to feed you chocolate-covered strawberries at your beck and call," she said, tone oozing sarcasm. "Can't you see the golden waterfalls and Greek statues everywhere?"

"Rachel," Blaine scolded, low as a whisper. "Kind of funny, but not the right time to make jokes at his expense."

Surprisingly, the guy gave a snort of laughter. But then he fixed Rachel with a squinted stare. "Hey…I know you," he said.

Rachel's posture straightened at this, pulling away from Blaine to face the guy more directly. Had word of her magnificent talent somehow spread beyond Lima, Ohio? Was he the son of a famous casting director who would show up any minute in a private jet, ready to rescue them and whisk Rachel off to a world of stardom?

"You're the girl who saved my life!" he said, snapping his fingers.

Oh…_that_. Of course. Rachel's shoulders slumped, her bright and hopeful smile dimming.

The guy continued staring at Rachel, scrutinizing her. He didn't look particularly grateful, but rather calculating. His pale blue eyes were as unreadable as Brittany's English essays.

"Yeah," said Rachel bitterly, mad at the guy for giving her false hope. Even if she'd come up with the concept on her own. "You're welcome for that, by the way."

The guy still didn't say 'thank you,' though. He just flicked his gaze over Rachel's entire frame in a way that – for some unknown reason – gave her a shiver down her spine_._

"I'm Blaine. Sixteen years old, from Lima, Ohio."

The guy's analyzing eyes swept over to Blaine. He sized him up as indecipherably as he had with Rachel. Maybe it was Rachel's imagination, but it seemed like the guy wasn't as interested in Blaine.

When the guy didn't reply, just leaned back against his tree and put on a bored expression, Blaine none-too-subtly nudged Rachel in the side. He gave her a look, and though she rolled her eyes at him, she followed her friend's silent order.

"I'm Rachel Berry." She introduced herself with a bit of snootiness. "You've probably heard of me." Okay, so she knew he probably hadn't, but there was something about him that made her want to appear as superior as possible. "And if you _haven't_, then you will one day. I'm seventeen, almost eighteen, and I also hail from the humble origins of Lima, Ohio. As Blaine can attest, I am destined to be a star, so if I were you, I would be a bit friendlier to me."

Blaine had to resist the urge to smack Rachel on the arm and roll his eyes. He did genuinely like her, but sometimes she just opened that damn mouth of hers and started yammering on and on.

The guy appeared amused by Rachel's speech. Something in his icy blue eyes softened as she flipped her shoulder-length hair and lifted her chin up high.

"Damian. Just turned nineteen yesterday, so happy-friggin'-birthday to me." The guy – Damian – gave a jagged, mirthless chuckle.

He didn't mention where he came from, but neither Blaine nor Rachel thought it important enough to ask.

"Now that our basic identities have been established," Rachel said, "I would just like to say that I think we should all work together and make the best of our current situation. It may seem dire – impossible, even – but I'll have you know that I am co-captain of my and Blaine's Glee Club, which showcases my innate leadership qualities. I get straight-A-pluses – _not _just straight-A's, mind you – and will be graduating top of my class, a shoe-in for valedictorian or at least salutatorian, at this rate…."

She paused to take a breath and Damian cast a glance – half-amazed, half-annoyed – to Blaine. "Does she always talk this much?" he asked in a tone that begged the answer to be 'no, she's just gone momentarily insane.'

Blaine smirked and nodded. _Get used to it, buddy,_ he thought. _You're about to be in a world of Rachel Berry for however long we're stuck here._

Rachel glared at Damian. "_Excuse me_, do I interrupt _you_ when you're talking?"

"I wasn't aware you were still talking. And I'm not sure I could even call what you were doing talking, because that seemed more like an onslaught of random words attacking my ears!"

Blaine squeezed his lips together to keep from laughing out loud. The exasperation and disbelief in Damian's tone and the fire in Rachel's narrowing eyes made for a hilarious combination.

"I'm sorry if your tiny brain cannot process more than grunts and two-syllable words, _Damian_" the name dripped with contempt "but I just so happen to have won _three_ speaking competitions in my life."

Damian threw his hands up in the air. "What does that have to do with anything!"

"It has to do with _everything_," Rachel snapped. She knew it didn't really make sense and was a lame comeback, but whatever. She wasn't going to let this ungrateful, mysterious boy win. Not when his eyes were such an impossible tint of blue, and not when she resented the way his perfectly shaped mouth's default setting seemed to be a smirk that was as irritatingly superior as it was irritatingly delicious.

"All right, all right," Blaine cut in, shaking his head. "Can't we all just get along? Not even one day here and you guys are already at each other's throats."

"Fine," Damian and Rachel grumbled in unison, crossing their arms over their chests at the same time. They glared at each other for this, blaming the other for the unplanned synchronicity.

Blaine heaved a frustrated sigh and raked his fingers through his tight curls. "I'm used to babysitting my little cousins," he said. "I don't want to, but if you two keep behaving like this, I swear I'll put you both in time-out." Something in his voice made it very unappealing to test this theory.

Damian rolled his eyes but didn't say anything sarcastic in response. Rachel huffed and glared out at the trees before remembering that such straining of the facial muscles could produce wrinkles, which weren't ideal for a long-term career in show business. She settled on turning her back to Damian and fully facing Blaine, her head held high and her posture straight as a board.

"Not the 'let's start over with handshakes and hugs' attitude I was hoping for, but considering you guys are no longer evaporating each other with yours eyes, I'd say it's a start," Blaine said. "Guys, I know you got off on the wrong foot, but how about we all – "

"Shut up, Blaine!" Rachel and Damian said at once.

"Shutting up," said Blaine, holding up his hands in surrender and cautiously scooting away from them.

What a lovely way to begin their time together on this island.

* * *

><p>Puck was on fire.<p>

Reading that, most people would think, 'well, yeah, this badass dude is _always_ on fire.' He was on fire when he raced down the football field, perfectly executing his designated play. He was on fire when he rocked out in the Glee Club, wooing all the chicks (and sometimes Kurt). And he was 'awn_ fy-ahh_, baby!' everyday he winked at himself in the mirror, shooting finger-pistols, as he took in his glorious Mohawk.

But right now, Puck was literally _on fire_. No figure of speech, no term of adoration.

His sneakers and the cuffs of his jeans were licked by a hungry flame. He'd managed to survive the explosion without any serious damage (a miracle he attested to being such an awesome Jew). He did have some burned areas of his skin that were bleeding, and the back of his hands – used to hold his friend against his back as he ran – were covered with blisters, but his body hadn't combusted and his Mohawk was still fully intact, not a single hair singed.

But for some reason, residue fire from the explosion or something was now trying to eat his legs.

He rolled around and around to put it off, curse words spilling from his mouth. Puck had an impressively colorful vocabulary at times, the kind that would make a frail old woman faint.

The sand helped him quickly snuff out the fire. He kicked off his sneakers – which reeked of burned rubber and had slightly melted soles – and rolled up his pant legs. No burns had marred the skin there, but there were some nasty-looking heat blisters. _Cool,_ Puck thought. An ironic word choice temperature-wise, but he had to admit, these battle wounds looked pretty badass.

Sweat flowed from his scalp, from his muscled back, from his legs. He was sweating all over. Thankfully he was wearing pretty bitchin' deodorant that made all the girls swoon. But he also kind of smelled like a baked tired, what with the scorched shoes and all.

Puck crawled further away from the scene of the explosion. He'd been knocked out by the shockwave it had created, but luckily it had protected him more than harming him by propelling him and the friend over his shoulder safely away from the smoldering plane.

There was so much smoke, all around him. He coughed; his throat burned. He felt like he'd just taken a drink from the fiery lava of hell.

He pulled Brittany Pierce – the friend whom he had rescued from the airplane right before it exploded – back into his arms and, using only his knees, dragged them a good ways away from the plane.

When they were safe and away from the smoke, he looked down at Brittany. She was unconscious, had been found pinned beneath a few heavy pieces of luggage, which is why Puck, Kurt, or Mike hadn't spotted her right away.

She looked almost peaceful, her eyes gently shut and her breath coming in steady puffs from his nostrils. Her long, silky blonde hair was just a little bit singed at the end; she was covered in grime and sweat; and heat blisters dotted her arms, face, and neck, but other than all that, she looked just as pretty and unassuming as usual.

Puck gingerly moved some hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ear. Her eyelashes looked even longer when they were closed, curling up from her lids.

"Yo, Brittany," Puck said, firmly nudging her shoulder with his knuckles. "You gotta wake up, dude, okay? We aren't, like, completely toasted or anything, so you can open your eyes now."

She didn't react, but her breaths were even. Puck wondered if she was dreaming; she probably was, about something as weird as tap-dancing, talking cats.

He needed to get them each a bottle of water from the supply pile beside the luggage; however, he didn't want to leave Brittany alone. Shielding a hand over his eyes to block the sunlight, he surveyed the scene. He was pretty sure he saw someone throwing up, and there was a most likely dead dude with a bloody stump in place of one of his legs, but he didn't see anyone he knew.

He'd been so busy pulling people from the plane that he hadn't gotten a chance to find his friends. Then there was the tiny matter of the explosion. He, Kurt, and Mike had provided an odd trio of heroes (Puck had surprised even himself by racing back into the wreckage to salvage injured bodies, but didn't they say disasters could bring out the very best in the most unlikely people?). So he knew at least two of his friends were okay – three, if you included unconscious Brittany, which he did.

He was pretty sure he'd caught a glimpse of Finn at one point, but he couldn't be sure. As far as the rest of his fellow Glee Clubbers went, he had no idea. He just hoped they were all safe, though one particular face – majestically beautiful and surrounded by flowing pale blonde locks – kept returning to his mind.

His throat taunted him with terrible tickles, making him hack violently, which in turn made his already raw throat feel like someone were scraping a red-hot knife over and over it. He decided he needed to get some water for him and Brittany.

He'd just gotten to his feet – more like stumbled, as the shaky bastards almost made him fall right back down again – when he heard a chorus of his name. Familiar voices, calling out to him in unison.

He squinted up at the sky, expecting to see a tunnel of light calling him to heaven, with angels beaming down at him. "God?" he asked, a confused look spreading across his face.

"Yes, I Am God, and I command you to give your wallet to Mike Chang."

Puck whipped around to find himself facing Mike, Finn, and Quinn. A giant grin stretched all the way across his face.

"All right, so I'm not dying," he said, breathing an audible sound of relief. "Good, 'cause I wasn't looking forward to meeting up with my Uncle Ricardo in heaven. I owe him a lotta money from out last Poker game."

They all laughed at this, but it took Puck a moment to join in, his a little _too_ loud.

His gaze inevitably fell on Quinn, his dark brown eyes locking with her light green ones. They shared smiles that were almost shy, their eyes sparkling with relief.

Finn looked physically relieved when he spotted Brittany lying near Puck's feet (which sported plain off-white socks with various holes in them). "Oh, she's okay!" he breathed. "Thank God!"

Everyone's attention jumped to Brittany.

Mike took an almost-relaxed breath that made his shoulders visibly less tense. There were still so many of their friends left unaccounted for, but now they at least knew both Puck and Brittany were here with them, safe.

Quinn's hand flew to her mouth at the sight of one of her best friends unconscious. "But is she…breathing?" she whimpered, afraid to hear the answer.

Puck turned his eyes back to Quinn. "Yeah," he said with a nod. He tried for a comforting smile. "She's fine, just kinda smells like dirty feet mixed with ashes."

Rather than roll her eyes at this 'insightful comment' like Quinn usually would, she gave Puck a small smile before sitting down beside Brittany and taking one of the girl's hands into both of her own.

"I was just about to go get some water bottles," said Puck. "But how about you get some for us?" His eyes went from Mike to Finn, not asking anyone in particular. "The Puckmeister needs to sit down and rest his aching bones. Plus, the Puckmeister feels like his vocal chords have just lost a wrestling match to a boa constrictor that was set on fire, so though he knows the present huskiness of his voice is sexy, he doesn't want to have to do any more talking to anyone along the way."

Mike gave his first real chuckle since they'd hit that violent patch of turbulence way up in the sky. "Sure, I'll go get us all one, no problem. And I'll let the others know you're okay."

"Who do you mean by 'others'?" Puck asked. The hope that Mike would list off every single one of their friends was so evident in Puck's question that Mike and Finn exchanged a sad look.

"Artie, Kurt, and Santana," said Mike, scratching the side of his head and looking away. "That's all so far."

"So far," Finn repeated firmly. There _was_ still hope; they couldn't give up on anyone else yet.

Puck nodded at this, pleased by Finn's reiteration. "All right. Now go and get that water fast enough to make everyone believe Asians aren't just a threat in the brains department."

Mike lifted his eyebrows at this but spun on his heels and raced off.

Quinn continued sitting by Brittany, no longer holding her hand but instead gently running her fingers through the soft blonde hair of Brittany's scalp. Puck looked down at her, amazed by how sweet and caring Quinn was being, by the tender expression she wore.

Then he looked at Finn, standing there with one hand rubbing the back of his neck, looking down at his tennis shoes.

"Hey, man," Puck said.

Finn snapped out of his deep thoughts and met his eyes with Puck's. "Hey."

They each nodded at each other even though nothing had really been said. But they were both here, saying _something_, and that was all that mattered.

A few beats of silence passed by until Finn said, "I'm really glad you're not, like, a melted puddle of goo or anything."

Puck smirked in appreciation. "Dude, awesome description!"

One corner of Finn's mouth curled upward. "It was an intense explosion."

"Like something out of a Vin Diesel movie?"

"Yeah, only your Mohawk is cooler than Vin Diesel's bald head."

The two best friends exchanged wide grins at this before pulling each other into a typical 'bro hug' of grabbing each other's cupped hand, pulling in for a chest-bump, and slapping each other on the back. Puck winced at his raw skin being smacked, but it was quickly replaced by a smile when they pulled away and he was again reminded that his best friend was right here with him.

"Not to risk sounding all sissy-man and all, but I'm glad you're okay, too, dude," said Puck.

And though there were still four of his other friends missing (five, counting their teacher), Puck could take momentary happiness in the sweet fact that at least most of them were safe and accounted for.

Himself, his best friend (Finn), the person he was perhaps most worried for (Quinn), Brittany, Mike, Kurt, Artie, and Santana.

For now, that had to be enough.

But it still didn't keep the empty, worried feeling from roiling around in Puck's well-toned stomach.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thank you guys so much for the continued support; you are all super awesome! xD Please remember that reviewing encourages me to update faster. I hope this chapter answers some of your questions, and if not, then be sure to ask me in a review. :) I appreciate constructive criticism, as well. I hope you enjoy this next chapter a lot.

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><p><span>Chapter Five<span>

After gathering an armful of water bottles, Mike headed over to Artie, Kurt, and Santana.

It was so weird to see Artie without his wheelchair. Weird in a really good way, of course. Mike was happy for Artie, that he could now fulfill his dreams of being a professional dancer, but still…there was just something really odd about it. Mike had always been a bit skeptical of miracles, because he was a logical person; he felt that if the universe did something great for you, then it would demand something equally as epic in return.

Strange as it may sound, Mike didn't want Artie to be in the universe's debt.

Because if there was one thing he'd learned throughout his life, it was that truly good things usually came with a truly high price.

Neither Kurt nor Santana were still crying; rather, Kurt stared out at the ocean, his face devoid of any emotion, his arms hugging his knees to his chest.

The poor boy looked drained: drained of the usual rosy tint to his pale cheeks; drained of the ever-present sparkle shining in his blue eyes.

Drained of life; drained of energy. Drained of happiness and of hope. Hope was a particularly dangerous thing to take away, the ultimate double-edged sword.

You take away somebody's hope, you could be taking away their will to continue dealing with life's ruthless punches.

Santana was talking to Artie, who looked like he didn't know how to react to her.

As Mike reached them, he heard Santana saying, "…going to sue the airline so hard that the owners' great-great-_great_ grandchildren will be in debt!"

"Um…yeah…" Artie said. From the hesitance in his tone, Mike guessed Santana had been ranting for a while.

"Hey, guys," Mike said in his best attempt at a cheery tone. "I brought you some water."

"Thanks, man," said Artie, catching one of the large water bottles Mike tossed him.

Santana snatched one away, almost making Mike drop the other ones stacked in his arms. "Yeah, thanks; I'm parched." She started guzzling down the water, unladylike gulps emitting from the base of her throat.

"Kurt?" Mike prodded. But the brown-haired boy was unresponsive, gazing out at the horizon with that empty look in his eyes.

"Kurt, you should drink some water," Artie said gently. "You're probably dehydrated."

Silence.

"…Kurt?" Artie tried again, more conviction in his tone. "Really, I bet you're thirsty."

"Oh, leave him alone, Legs," Santana said. "Congratulations on that, by the way."

"Uh, thanks."

Mike wondered why Santana was no longer a wreck, but he didn't really care why; he was just glad her fire was returning.

"You guys," he said, smiling. "Great news. We found Puck and Brittany, and they're fine."

Santana's eyes flew to Mike, seemed to double in size. A shaking hand jumped to her mouth, and her shoulders gave a brief tremble of relief. "What the hell, Mike? Why wasn't that the _first_ thing to come out of your Asian mouth!"

She jumped to her feet and wiped the sand from the seat of her black pants. "Take me to my baby, you got it?"

She didn't even give him a second to respond before barking, "Pronto, Chang!" She stomped her foot.

Mike couldn't help but chuckle. "All right; they're just a way's down the beach. You coming, Artie? Kurt?"

Kurt stayed immobile, carved from stone. Unblinking.

Artie looked at Kurt, frowned, looked at Mike. "I'm going to stay here with Kurt. Bring the others over here to us, okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Hurry up!" cried Santana, jumping up and down.

Mike and Santana set off for the others. In just a few minutes, they'd reached Quinn, Finn, Puck, and Brittany.

Santana dropped to her knees, nudged Quinn out of the way with her hip, and cradled Brittany's head in her lap.

"Baby, you have to wake up now, okay? I'm here. So come on, wake up!"

Brittany made a soft, questioning noise.

Santana's eyes brimmed with hopeful tears. "Brittany, sweetie, can you hear me?" Even though Brittany was covered in dirt and grime and sweat, and even though there were blisters dotting her porcelain skin, Santana just wanted to take her into her arms and kiss her.

Forever. Endlessly. Just their lips, molded together. The sweet taste of her Brittany.

"Just five more minutes, Lord Tubbington," Brittany murmured. "I am…sleepy…"

"Brittany, _wake up!_" begged Santana. Finn and Puck shuffled their feet, never having heard such wild desperation coloring her tone.

"Okay, okay, I'm up," Brittany grumbled, her eyelids fluttering slowly open. "What's for breakfast?"

Santana emitted a sound that was half-relieved-cry, half-laugh. She helped Brittany into a sitting position before throwing her arms around her and squeezing her tightly.

Brittany blinked, confused, and then hugged Santana back. "What's going on?" she asked. "Why is there so much sand? Oh no, did somebody shrink us and put us in my ant farm! If so, we need to find the Prime Minister Ant; he can get us back home!"

"Um, no. We survived a plane crash and are on some random island," said Puck. "I totally saved your life, by the way."

"Plane crash?" Brittany echoed. Her brow drew into a pucker. She gently pushed Santana away, gave her a loving smile, and then resumed the puzzled countenance. She directed her gaze to Finn, the leader. "What plane crash?"

Finn jerked a thumb to his right, toward the burned-out remains of the airplane. "_That_ plane crash."

"So where's everyone else then?"

An uncomfortable silence followed, heavy and suffocating as a lead blanket.

"Artie and Kurt are over there," said Mike, pointing in their general direction. "We're supposed to go over there for them."

"I've never been that good at math, but I'm pretty sure that there should be more people here than just us and Artie and Kurt," said Brittany, turning to Santana now, grabbing onto her best friend's hands. She linked their fingers together – a perfect fit – and never wanted to let go.

"We don't know where everyone else is, Brit," said Santana in as gentle a tone as possible, trying to dull the blade of those sharp words. "But I'm sure Tina and Mr. Schue will turn up soon."

Before Brittany had a chance to voice her next thoughts, Puck cut in, "You forgot to mention Rachel, Mercedes, and Blaine. They'll turn up soon, too, I bet."

Another awkward silence, laced with a biting sadness, followed.

"What?" Puck demanded, his eyes flicking from Finn's scrunched-up expression to Mike's refusal to make eye-contact. To Quinn wringing her hands in her lap, and to Santana's shaky inhalation of breath. And then to Brittany's curious frown appearing as she, too, searched her friends' faces.

"_WHAT IS IT!_" Puck bellowed, slamming one of his fists into his palm.

"They're gone, Puck," Quinn said. So quiet – almost a whisper.

"What do you mean '_they're gone_'?"

"You didn't notice that the entire back of the plane was gone when we were pulling people out?" asked Mike, not unkindly.

"I was too busy frigging _pulling people out_ to notice that kind of shit," Puck snapped. "What do you mean the back of the plane's gone?"

"He means it got sucked away!" Finn surprised everybody with his outburst. Every syllable rang with fury. "They're all dead! Mercedes and Blaine…and _Rachel!_" Oh, God, it hurt to say her name; hurt like the longest and sharpest sword slicing all the way through him. Over. And over. And over again.

Finn kicked the sand so hard that he stubbed his toe, but he didn't care. He couldn't even feel it, as a stubbed toe – hell, even a broken bone – was nothing compared to the raw, wicked pain crushing his chest.

The sand he kicked sprayed all over Quinn's lap, but she merely stood up and brushed it away rather than shoot off a rude remark.

Everyone stared at Finn, taken aback by his abrupt display of anger. Not that they didn't understand it; they just hadn't _expected_ it. Not from Finn, the strong one. The dependable one. Always levelheaded, always taking one for the team.

They watched as he whirled around and marched off. He headed for the jungle, his shoulders squared. His nostrils flared rapidly, and his breaths huffed out between firmly clenched teeth.

"Finn!" Puck called. Even though it was just one syllable, his voice cracked on the word, loaded with fresh emotion.

But Finn didn't slow his determined gait; he focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot; left, right, left, right. The rhythm of his heavy footsteps _stomp_-_stomp_ing through the baked sand matched the pounding of his heart.

He stormed past people shooting him curious expressions, finally reached the jungle. He shoved past branches dripping with moss; he cracked every twig, every feeble branch along his path, relishing that sound of finality it made when it broke.

He was a good half mile into the jungle when he turned to the tree to his right and punched it.

But rather than his knuckles splintering from the impact, his fist went _into_ the bark, up to his elbow, curling the wood inward.

He yanked out his arm, his sleeve shredded and his arm bleeding from long scratches, but his fist unaffected. And then he gave a great yell, thinking only of Rachel's face – her innocent smile, the brightness of her amber eyes – and how he would never see her again, as he wrapped his arms around the tree trunk and pulled.

The tree gave a protesting groan as its roots were ripped from the ground. Finn hardly broke a sweat, hardly felt the tension in his bunching muscles, as he swung the tree from the dirt and sent it flying through the air.

He sunk to the ground, buried his face within his trembling hands. _I'm not going to cry; I am _not_ going to cry,_ he told himself. _Gotta be a man; don't you dare cry, Finn!_

He was so busy fighting with himself not to let the burning tears fall that he didn't realize what he had just done.

All but forgot about the uprooted tree, sailing through the air to land a hundred yards away, taking out a fruit tree with it.

* * *

><p>Tina Cohen-Chang didn't know where she was.<p>

She just knew it was very green.

She blearily opened her eyes; at that moment, she became aware of how much pain she was in. It was indescribable, the force of nothing she'd ever felt before.

She lay on the ground, her limbs twisted in strange directions. The sight of her bloody, mangled body made her turn her aching neck to the side and throw up.

Disorientation drugged her, made her eyelids heavy as rocks and her head swim with a thousand different questions.

In a rush, it came back to her. The plane crash; being thrown out the window; falling through trees, being smacked and whipped and pummeled by branches as she fell. Hitting the ground with an impact so violent that she had _felt_ her bones rattle. Then blackness had swept over her, welcomed because of the numbing powers it held.

How long ago had that been? She felt like she'd been unconscious for days, weeks even. But she was sure it had only been several hours. Yeah, right – _only_ been several hours. Like that was such a comforting thought.

She felt as if she had been hit by a bulldozer. Then thrown off the Empire State Building. Then attacked by a million of Coach Sylvester's insults, a force greater than any other in the universe.

Tina began whimpering, and then howling with pain. It hurt to breathe; it hurt to cry. It hurt just lying there. She was sure every bone had broken. She had glass in her hair, dried rivulets of blood down her face. Still-wet blood pulsating from open wounds along her legs.

She just wanted the pain to _stop_. She couldn't even remember what it felt like to be in a normal state without everything hurting.

She tried to move her legs but couldn't; the action made her shriek at the top of her lungs. She lifted her left arm –eyes squeezed shut to block out the sight of her gruesome injuries – and the breath was knocked from her lungs.

She placed her arm back down, but rather than setting it on the ground, she flopped it on top of her other arm. Bad decision – the pain intensified. Her left hand splayed on top of her right.

_Please stop hurting,_ she thought wildly. Desperation choked her, made it hard for her to even remember how to inhale, exhale. _Stop hurting!_

And then, the strangest thing happened.

Her right arm _did_ stop hurting. She felt this sweet, burning sensation – like that cool sting of cough medicine spritzed to a sore throat – spread from her left palm and all the way through her right arm. She could hear bones snapping back into place, could somehow _feel_ the bruises fading away. The wounds closed up and blood stopped spilling onto her left hand.

She peeked one eye open, watching it happen. It was an uncomfortable feeling, her bones and muscles shifting around, clicking back into place, but it didn't cause any pain. It wasn't a good feeling, but it was one thousand times better than how it had felt when it was a broken mess.

Tina gaped at her hand, disbelief curling through her senses. What the hell was going on here? Was she…healing herself?

She tested her theory, now used her right hand to heal her left arm. She felt it restored from her shoulder to her fingertips, slowly at first but gathering speed.

Filled with excitement and astonishment, Tina ran her hands over every part of her body that ached (which was basically every part of her body). As she worked, she cried from sheer happiness and relief.

It hurt the most when she healed her head, as she could feel the bruises leaving her brain, vanishing from her skull. With it, her intense headache melted swiftly away.

Afterward, her skin tingled all over. But she could sit up, could breathe, could move around without even the slightest feeling of pain.

Tina wiped at her tears. She was still covered in patches of blood, and there were a few minor scrapes and bruises here and there that she hadn't focused on enough to get rid of, but other than that, she was completely fine.

Her eyes burned as if she'd kept them open all day staring into the intense sun. Fatigue threw itself over her like a cloak, dark and heavy. She felt exhaustion travel all the way through her, from the top of her scalp to her tips of her toes.

She lay back down and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, never having felt more peaceful – or more tired – in her life.

* * *

><p>Artie had given Kurt his space. He hadn't tried to make him talk. But it had been a good fifteen minutes since Mike and Santana had left to get the others, and he figured he should try to make some progress with him. Try to make his friend feel better.<p>

He scooted closer to the right of him, but still leaving a good two feet between them. "Pretty crazy, huh?" he said.

Kurt didn't reply.

"You know, that I can _walk_ again," Artie said.

Nothing.

"Kurt, will you please talk to me?"

…

"Kurt?"

…

"Please, Kurt, I just want you to know that I'm here if you need me," said Artie. "I'm a really good listener." He reached over and rested his hand on Kurt's shoulder, felt the warm fabric of his friend's emerald green cardigan sweater.

Kurt's every muscle stiffened as his eyes snapped closed; he drew in a sharp breath, and his hands flew up, capturing Artie's between them.

Not a second later, Kurt's eyes flew back open and stared into Artie's; Artie was taken aback by the look gleaming in his friend's eyes.

It was a look of such…_power_. Artie couldn't explain it, but it made a chill trace down his spine.

"Tina's okay," Kurt said breathlessly, holding Artie's hand at a bone-crunching grip; Artie winced, but then what Kurt was saying registered with him.

"_What_?"

"Tina's okay," Kurt repeated in a detached voice. His eyes glazed over. "In the jungle. You find her. She's okay."

And then he dropped Artie's hands and slouched over into the sand, eyes fluttering closed.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thank you guys so much for all of the fan-freaking-tastic feedback. XD I hope you'll enjoy this next chapter. Yes, it's pretty long, but that's because it has a lot of information in it. Please remember to review; I love hearing from you guys, and I even appreciate constructive criticism. Tell me what you like, don't like, think I can improve on, etc. And without further ado, I hope you have fun reading my story! :D

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Six<span>

"I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse," Blaine said.

"Yeah, well, _I'm_ so hungry, I could eat _two_ horses," Damian countered, lifting one eyebrow in a challenge.

It had been two hours since Damian and Rachel's argument. Not much had happened. Damian had promptly fallen back asleep, somehow snoring without a care in the world. He'd just woken up about five minutes ago.

Rachel had ranted to Blaine about Damian's rudeness for a solid ten minutes; Blaine had let her yap on and on about it because he could tell it was helping her blow off steam. He could also tell that her complaints about Damian weren't really about _him_, but pushed-aside emotions from all the other things they had to worry about.

Mainly, he had tuned her out, nodding occasionally. But then it had gotten kind of ridiculous, her just rehashing the same sentiments over and over, disguised only by a slightly different wording, and so he had told her to stop.

So then Rachel started complaining that nobody ever appreciated her, that even stranded on an island Blaine still didn't appreciate their friendship or really care about her and her opinions, and had ranted about that for a while until finally Blaine had had to just get up and walk back to the beach. He had sprouted a headache at some point –whether from the sore giant-egg-shaped bump on his head or from Rachel's non-stop chatter, he wasn't sure – and desperately need to rest.

He'd stayed there, sleeping deeply for about an hour and half, until awaking suddenly and feeling wired with nervous energy. It was hard to try to sleep when he was so far away from home, surrounded by miles and miles of unfamiliar territory.

He'd walked back to their spot near the babbling brook, feeling a lot better, but still not exactly ready to turn cartwheels or anything. He'd made peace with Rachel (though she still seemed to be in a rotten mood), Damian had woken up, and Blaine could take his growing hunger no longer.

Thus, their current conversation.

"Okay, I raise your two horses by two _more_ horses and an elephant," said Blaine. His stomach gave a grumpy growl, punctuating his sentence.

"I should've known," Rachel muttered to herself, but loudly enough that she obviously wanted them to hear her.

Blaine ignored her, but Damian – who still had much to learn in the ways of dealing with Rachel Berry – took the bait. "You should've known _what?_"

"I should've known that you would be one of those disgusting testosterone-fueled boys who only care about stuffing their face with the manliest of meats," she sneered. "I'll have you know that as a proud vegan, I resent your entire conversation."

"Um, hello," Blaine lifted a hand and fixed Rachel with a look. "I eat meat. You're inadvertently insulting me here, when your beef is with him."

Rachel's eyes flashed as she gave a scandalized gasp. "_Oh_, pun intended, I'm sure, Blaine!"

Blaine dragged a hand through his hair. "Yes, Rachel, that completely non-cliché phrase that I just made up was used as a way to deeply offend you. I know no other way to upset you than by throwing out evil puns coined by the devil himself."

Damian cracked up at this. Rachel crossed her arms over her chest, her narrowed gaze sweeping over to Damian.

"Oh, you think this is funny, do you?"

"Just for your future reference, when somebody is _laughing_, that's usually clue number one that they indeed find something funny."

Blaine could feel his stress level rising. He hated confrontations. For the umpteenth time, he wished Kurt were here with him. He always knew what to say to calm him down; just the touch of their fingers brushing together was enough to make Blaine forget all of his problems.

Rachel opened her mouth to issue a haughty retort, but Blaine quickly cut in. "You guys, stop! Seriously, just stop. Nobody wants to be here; we're all hungry and irritable, I get it. But I cannot take all the yelling and arguing. You guys don't even know each other! What's there to fight about, really?"

Rachel opened her mouth again, surely about to lay out exactly what there was to fight about, but Blaine held up a hand. His look was sharp; it made Rachel snap her lips together and have the audacity to appear a bit shamefaced.

"Rachel," Blaine said. Their eyes met and an understanding passed between them – the situation sucked, but they had each other. And Damian, for whatever that was worth. "For me, please, give him a chance."

He then looked to Damian, who sat with his arms folded across his chest. It caused his well-toned biceps to flex, Rachel noticed with a stab of irritation.

Damian met Blaine's pleading gaze with a bored expression. "So long as she doesn't attempt to insult me with that never-ending vocabulary of hers, I'll play it nice. Just don't expect me to start singing a tearful rendition of 'Kumbaya' around the campfire."

Blaine smirked. "Deal."

"So," said Damian in a casual tone, perhaps attempting to steer the conversation away from another argument, "how come you guys were on the plane?"

"We're part of our school's Glee Club," Blaine answered quickly, shooting a warning glance at Rachel. "We won this contest that our director, Mr. Schuester, entered, and the grand prize was our club getting to fly to Jamaica during our summer vacation for a week and sing to the locals there."

"Actually, it was kind of a weird and random competition," said Rachel. "It happened all of a sudden, and Mr. Schue didn't even remember entering it. But who's going to turn down a free vacation to Jamaica? What could _possibly_ go wrong, right?" She barked a bitter laugh.

"But we had a lot of fun there," Blaine added, trying to bring some light to the dark storm clouds brewing over Rachel's head.

"We'd been on our flight home to Lima for a while when the plane…um…" She couldn't bring herself to say the word.

"Right," said Damian, and to his credit, the seemingly indifferent boy had genuine sympathy all over his face. "That must've sucked."

"How did _you_ get here?" Rachel asked, not accusingly, but rather with a tone that was perhaps _too_ innocently curious. "A victim of the plane...crash…as well?"

"Yeah," Damian said. His tone deeply implied that he would have preferred to have instead said, 'Um, _DUH!_', but was trying to place it nice.

Rachel and Blaine exchanged an imperceptible look, only possibly understood by the two.

"Oh, really?" Blaine shifted his position, tucked his legs under him. "That's interesting."

"How so?" Damian asked.

"Because you weren't wet at all."

"Which means you couldn't have landed in the ocean."

"And you aren't injured. _At_. _All_."

"Which means you didn't land on the ground or in a tree or something."

Damian rolled his eyes. "Wow, you guys are some regular Nancy Drews, huh?" He shoved his hand through his hair, heaved the sort of heavy sigh that said 'why do I have to deal with this?'

"You guys don't think I'm as freaked out and curious as you guys are as to why I'm so unharmed? I've been unconscious ever since the plane started going down – I dunno, maybe I fainted, as unmanly as it is to admit that; maybe something knocked me out – and now I wake up to Sherlock and Watson? I'm thinking the only possible explanation is that I – by some miracle – landed without injury. I must have some special guardian angel looking after me or something."

He gave an almost challenging shrug of his shoulders, fixed them with a look. Rachel noticed he hadn't broken eye contact with them and hadn't been fidgeting or stuttering, so she figured he was probably telling the truth.

But still…there was just something about him. Something that she found very suspicious.

"Okay then," said Blaine, folding his hands in his lap. "We'll leave it at that. Right, Rachel?" He turned to her, but the brief widening of his eyes and slight pursing of his lips told her his _real_ opinion on the matter: he didn't trust Damian either. She raised her chin, brought it down again in the smallest of movements, but Blaine caught her indication as well.

"Right, Blaine," she said, fixing Damian with a tight smile.

"So, Damian, how come _you_ were on the plane?" she inquired.

"I was visiting some family in Jamaica," he answered very quickly.

"You don't look Jamaican at all," said Rachel.

"Well, you know what they say about 'assuming,'" Damian shot back. "It makes an 'ass' out of _you_."

Rachel glared at him; he made a show of rolling his eyes. "My aunt and uncle are white like me, but they moved to Jamaica after they retired. _Not_ that it's any of your business. So, yeah, I was on the plane 'cause my visit had ended and I was on my way back home to the States."

"Where in the States?" Blaine, the question posed _too_ nonchalantly.

"New York," he said without missing a beat.

"Where in New York?" Blaine, again.

"Rochester."

"Mmm-_hmmm_." Rachel pursed her lips, tilted her head to the side. "Interesting."

"So, you guys say you came here with your Glee Club," said Damian, abruptly changing subjects. "Who else was on the plane?"

Both Rachel and Blaine thought this was sort of a rude question; didn't he have the common decency to know that neither of them wanted to have to talk about and think of their probably-dead friends right now? But Damian didn't wear an expression of wanting to cause trouble, and his tone was even gentle.

So Blaine figured he'd humor him, if only so that they could finally get past talking about the crash and start talking about what they were all going to do to survive in the here and now.

"There was Rachel and myself, obviously," he said. He began ticking the others off on his nimble fingers, one-by-one. "And Mr. Schuester. Um… Brittany, Santana, Tina, Artie." He swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat before stumbling over the next name. "Mer-Mercedes. Uh, Quinn, Puck, Finn, and…Mike."

Of course there was also another name. A name purposefully left from the list. Rachel reached over and gave Blaine's hand a comforting squeeze when she realized he had omitted Kurt.

It would hurt Blaine too much to mention Kurt right now. Speaking the name of his boyfriend aloud would be his undoing. He had to remain strong if he was going to survive.

A bit of silence, and then Damian asked: "Who else?"

Rachel's eyebrows skyrocketed. "What do you mean? Why are you asking that? Why would there be anyone else?"

Blaine folded his arms over his chest. "That was it."

"You sure you're not forgetting someone?"

"Why the hell would I have forgotten someone in my own Glee Club?" Blaine yelled.

"Whoa, whoa, easy, choir boy!" Damian held up both of his hands and scooted a bit away. "I just thought there was someone else, is all. Like, um, you just looked like you weren't done with your list."

"I'm pretty sure my being quiet after 'Mike' was indication that there are no other names."

"Jeez, fine, sorry I asked."

Rachel narrowed her eyes. Something was _definitely_ off here. An awkward silence hung in the air like a rotten smell for a while until she simply could not stand it any longer. They needed to stop moping and fighting, and start taking action.

"Now that that's settled," she said, getting to her feet. She smoothed out her short pleated skirt – navy with golden studs lining the sides. She pulled up her navy knee high socks, which she thought went beautifully with her red ballet flats and long-sleeved scoop-necked shirt that perfectly matched the color of her skirt.

She clapped her hands together in an authoritative manner. "We need to collect provisions. We have drinkable water – so a check for beverage. But we need actual _food_. I think I saw some coconut trees a little ways to the left.

"Damian, if you'd be so kind as to shimmy up one of those trees and be our designated Coconut Collector? A highly respectable job, I assure you." She was now determined to be as polite as possible, to not let this irritating boy get the best of her. She'd never had her feathers get so ruffled by anyone before, not even Noah Puckerman, who was perhaps the most immature individual she had ever met.

Damian lifted his eyebrows at the term 'Coconut Collector,' but he stood up and looked at Rachel without a fiery comeback.

"Blaine," said Rachel, turning to her friend with a brisk clap of her hands. He got to his feet and smiled encouragingly at her.

"You were a Boy Scout, right?"

"I _am_ an Eagle Scout."

"So I bet you can identify which bushes host berries safe to eat? And you could start a fire?"

"_Can_ I?" Blaine feigned offense. "How can you even speak such blasphemy? _Of course_ I can."

Rachel smiled. "Good. Now get to it!" She clapped her hands together twice.

"And what are _you_ going to do?" Damian asked. "Just stand there and watch _us_ do all the work? I don't think so."

Rachel fought the intense urge to roll her eyes. "_No_." Try as she might, she couldn't keep the scorn from her tone. "I'm going to go back to the beach and start making a giant SOS sign for the rescue helicopters to see. We're going to set up camp there, because there's no way we're going to be seen out here in the jungle."

A strange sort of panic flashed within Damian's ice blue eyes, but it was there so briefly that Rachel couldn't tell if she'd imagined it.

"No," he snapped. "We stay here. No beach, got it?"

Rachel planted her hands on her hips. "Well you can stay out here and live in the jungle for the rest of your life for all I care, but Blaine and I want to go home, so _we'll_ be with our SOS sign in the sand."

Damian looked to Blaine, the slight rise in his black eyebrows questioning if he would agree with Rachel.

"Sorry, but Rachel's right. We can't stay out here; it makes more sense to go to the beach." He shrugged.

"The only thing that will give us is a nasty sunburn," Damian said. "Here, we have fresh water. We have coconut, banana, and pineapple trees. We have ample shade and a cooler temperature."

"The beach is five minutes away," said Rachel. Her arched brow and curled lips clearly asked, 'Do you have any sense at all, or are you really that stupid?' "We can easily walk back and forth from there to here when we're thirsty. We can collect the food and leave it with us on the beach. Considering the rescue helicopters should be here soon, I doubt we'll even have enough time to acquire a 'nasty sunburn.'" Finger-quotes framed the last two words.

Damian pursed his lips and ran a hand through his short, inky-black hair. His untucked gray T-shirt pulled up from his faded jeans as he did so, revealing a strip of toned, sun-kissed abdomen.

Rachel scowled at the sight, as if his marginally exposed flesh offended her.

"I just think you guys are being too hasty," Damian said, seeming to choose his words very carefully. He dropped his hands to his sides, curled them into frustrated fists. He surprised Rachel by fixing her with an expression that was almost pleading in its earnestness. "It just makes more sense to stay here. We have all that we need. We can work on the SOS sign tomorrow, but the sun's going to go down soon. And I think you're getting a bit too optimistic about the rescue helicopter."

"What do you mean?" Blaine inquired. "You don't think a search team is out looking for any survivors of the crash?"

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," said Damian, his tone actually gentle. Even though he was answering Blaine, he looked at Rachel's hard expression as he talked. "But I overheard the stewardesses talking. They said the pilot was going to wrong way. He was…um, he was _thousands_ of miles off course."

He let the words sink in, watched as the horror spread across Blaine's and Rachel's faces.

"So, yeah, I believe there's a search team looking for us. But will they find us? Nope. We're somewhere completely different than their expecting."

Rachel's eyes widened so large, they would've made an anime character jealous. Blaine had gone ashen.

"We might as well start dragging out the 'Home, Sweet Home' welcome mats and make ourselves comfortable," said Damian. "Because we're lost. Stuck here. My guess? Forever."

In response, Rachel's eyes fluttered closed and she collapsed forward to the ground, fainted.

* * *

><p>"Kurt? … Kurt? … <em>Kurt!<em>"

_Go away,_ Kurt thought. _I want to sleep some more._

But unfortunately, the annoying person who kept nudging his shoulder was not telepathic, and thus, could not take a hint.

He groaned in response.

"Kurt?" The same voice, insistent. _Ugh,_ he was _so_ going to kick them in their obnoxious face with the ah-dorable Marc Jacobs boots he was wearing – vintage, black, and slouchy.

Kurt opened his eyes; a pair of big blue ones peered back at him from behind a pair of familiar black-wire-rimmed glasses. He startled, jerked backward.

"You okay?" It was Artie, sounding extremely alarmed for some reason.

Kurt hoisted himself onto his elbows and looked around, not seeing anyone else he knew. "Yeah, yeah, I'm just peachy, despite your whole-hearted campaign to ruin my afternoon nap," he groused. "Beauty sleep doesn't just take place at nighttime, Artie; it takes catching quite a bit of 'Z's to look _this_ good." He swirled a finger at his own face.

Artie threw his arms around him in a bone-squeezing hug.

"Oy, Mr. Muscles, I can't _breathe_," Kurt squeaked.

Artie released him; when he pulled away, Kurt noticed the concern scrawled all over Artie's face.

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me."

Kurt lifted one of his perfectly plucked eyebrows in a comical fashion. "Yeah, because _that_ makes perfect sense."

But Artie didn't chuckle. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what? That we crashed onto an island with horribly humid air, sure to damage my pampered hair follicles? But hopefully the homemade kelp facial masks will be a plus. Or, do I remember that three of our dear friends are dead, including my boyfriend?" Kurt's tone was bitter, but at least he wasn't hysterical like before. For some reason, he was now much more composed.

He eyed Artie up and down before adding irritably, "_Or_, maybe, just maybe, you're asking me if I remembered to tell you that the gold clasps on your dark blue suspenders clash with your silver belt buckle."

"No. I'm asking if you remember that right before you passed out, you told me that Tina was okay and I was going to go find her."

"Oh," Kurt said. "_That_." He pursed his lips together.

"Yes," Artie said, a hard look entering his eyes at Kurt's sheepishness. "_That_."

Kurt straightened his once pristine red bowtie, which was now dirtied and ripped. How could he explain to Artie what had happened to him? How, when his friend had touched him, he'd felt the whole world fall away and a new surrounding take its place? That he'd seen Artie finding Tina on the jungle floor, had seen the relieved look overtake his features as he scooped her into his arms? How could he explain the overly sharpened colors of his vision, or the way Artie's voice had sounded both boomingly close and echoingly far away as he'd said, "He was right; he was right!"?

How could Kurt explain that somehow – inexplicably – he just _knew_ that he had seen into the future? That what he'd seen _was_ going to come true, and soon?

You couldn't just explain that sort of thing to someone and expect them to believe you're perfectly sane afterward.

But Artie was staring at him pointedly, expecting a real answer. And Kurt found he couldn't lie to one of his best friends.

"All right. Fine. I had a total Phoebe Halliwell moment, minus the perfect hair and to-die-for bone structure."

Artie merely blinked in response, a slight frown tugging his mouth downward. After a moment, he finally said, "What are you talking about?"

"Okay, fine," Kurt gave a dramatic sigh, like his big secret had just been discovered. "You're right. I, too, have perfect hair and to-die-for bone structure, but I chose to refrain from arrogance."

"What the hell are you talking about, Kurt? I don't even know who that Phoebe what's-her-face-name _is_."

"Don't tell me!" Kurt gasped, scandalized. "You've never seen _Charmed_? The characters' wardrobes are reason alone to check it out. Wait – what am I saying? Wardrobes are the only reason I even watch most TV shows. God knows one doesn't tune into re-runs of _Sex and the City_ for the so-called 'plotline.'"

Artie laughed reluctantly at all this, but his serious look quickly returned. "Kurt? Your point? I'm sure you have one, so please make it."

"All right, I digress," Kurt admitted. "My point is I had a vision. Of the 'It Hasn't Actually Happened Yet' variety."

"Huh?"

Kurt took a deep breath. "Artie…I saw into the future."

"I repeat: _huh_?"

"I. Saw. Into. The. _Future_." Kurt drew the last word out slowly.

"No need to talk to me like I'm an idiot," Artie said defensively. "You're the one claiming to be, like, randomly a psychic! I mean, how do you even _know_ it was the future?"

"I just know," Kurt said. "I can't explain it. Okay, it would be like if you held up two almost identical bags; one, a genuine Prada, and the other, a really good knock-off. Looking at the two, I would just know the difference, because that's the kind of fashion maven I innately am."

Artie still didn't look convinced.

"Oh. Right. Silly me; forgot who I was talking to," Kurt snickered and gave a coy wink. "All right, here's an analogy more accessible to you. It's like, if someone put a blindfold around your eyes, right? And they had you eat something, but they didn't even hint as to what it was. And it's peanut butter.

So even though you can't see the peanut butter, or feel it because you're using a spoon, or even really smell it for whatever reason, you know the taste of it. You _know_ that it's peanut butter because it _is_ peanut butter."

"Okay," Artie said. He fixed Kurt with a challenging look. "The only catch is, what if you've never had peanut butter before? Then you would have no clue what it was when you tasted it. It'd be something new, maybe even something made up."

"So you're saying you don't believe me." Kurt said it as a statement, not a question. He looked disappointed by this, but it wasn't unexpected.

"No," said Artie. "I believe you. I just found your elongated simile flawed." A slow smile spread across his face.

Kurt's lips matched Artie's. "You don't think I'm crazy?"

Artie barked a sarcastic laugh. "Oh, believe me, I think you're plenty crazy. But not about this whole psychic thing."

Kurt cracked up at that. Artie joined in, and the two boys found themselves feeling a moment of true happiness for the first time in hours. It was glorious, albeit short-lived.

Their laughter died down, and then they were back to business.

"So your vision…it just came to you when I put my hand on your shoulder?"

"Yeah; it was really weird. I felt like I was watching a scene unfold, but as a ghost. Like, I felt the wind and could smell the woodsy air, but I couldn't say anything or do anything. It was a simultaneously power_ful_ and power_less_ experience. If that makes sense?"

"Yeah, I think I get you. But honestly, I think the real reason I'm so perceptive to this idea – other than the fact that your imagination doesn't extend much beyond color-coordinating – is that something really weird happened to me, too."

"What was it?"

"Well, remember the explosion?"

Kurt had to smirk at this. "Nope, I completely forgot. What explosion?" He rolled his eyes.

Artie chuckled and whacked Kurt on the arm. "You know what I mean."

"Anyway," Artie said, "it's like, I regain the function of my legs which is cool. Actually, understatement of the universe: it's the best damn thing in the entire world!" He paused to beam at his good fortune for a moment before going back to his tale.

"So, when the plane exploded, I took off. Ran as fast as I could. I've never been that good of a runner. Well, I mean, back when I was eight. Even then, I wasn't a shoe-in for pee-wee track or whatever. Anyway, so I start sprinting away from the explosion? Only the thing is, I'm not just sprinting…I'm like…I don't know. I can't even really find the right word for it.

"It was like…_super-speed_. And I'm not just talking an adrenaline rush. I didn't even feel any adrenaline – I ran fast as the wind, and I didn't even break a sweat. I must've traveled at least two hundred meters in five seconds. Doubled back at half the speed, made it atop this hill. Didn't know where I was for a second until I saw Finn lying on the ground, way behind me."

"So, basically, you're saying that you turned into The Flash?" Kurt asked, only a trace of sarcasm in his tone.

Kurt had knots tightening in his stomach. Knots of foreboding . Maybe he wasn't alone in this strange thing happening to him. _Changing_ him. For the better? He hoped so.

Now it was Artie's turn to roll his eyes. "No, I'm not saying I'm a superhero or anything. But I was definitely going faster than any human ever has in all of, like, _ever_."

"Well put. If your super-speed doesn't get you the ladies, your poetic way with words certainly will."

Artie laughed but slugged Kurt on the shoulder. Hard. "This is serious!"

"Jeez, what is it? Hit Your Favorite Gay Day? That's the second time you've whacked my arm in two minutes!"

"And I'll do it again if you don't quit cracking jokes. I took your freaky-deaky occurrence seriously, so treat mine with the same respect!"

"You're right; I'm sorry," Kurt said sincerely. "You know me, always using humor to lighten things up. And like Brittany with tying her shoes, I fail at it terribly."

"Nah, you're actually pretty funny."

"Most gay people are."

"So, you saw into the future; I had super-speed. Maybe _have_ super-speed."

"Hmmm…the adventures of a charmingly flamboyant teenage homosexual and his once-paralyzed friend with a dorky-yet-handsome look: it could make for a good comic book series. We'd fight crime; my character would be the one always spewing off the snarky one-liners. Yours, the only always failing to get the ladies despite his charmingly lame efforts."

The two boys laughed at this. Just the idea of Kurt in a pink Bedazzled cape and matching tights had Artie clutching his sides from guffaws.

When they'd regained their composure, Artie had to ask, "So, your vision – it was of Tina, right? What exactly did you see?"

"I saw you walking through the jungle. You spotted – or, I guess, _spot_ – Tina and pick her up and start cheering, 'He's right; he's right!' I'm assuming you'll be talking about me, confirming that I did indeed have a vision of the future. I don't know when it happens; I just know it'll be soon. Today, most likely. Or tomorrow. But whenever it is, it's sunny outside, not at nighttime or anything."

"Wow," Artie breathed. "So Tina's safe? She's really safe."

"Yep," Kurt smiled.

Artie felt his heart swelling with joy. "Well, thank God for that."

Kurt figured that _God_ had gotten them stuck on this island in the first place, but he didn't want to start anything, so he kept his mouth shut. If God were real, he just hoped He would throw him a bone for once and somehow reunite him with Blaine.

Yes, there was a tiny flicker of hope buried deep within Kurt that whispered: _Maybe Blaine's okay. Maybe he's alive, looking for me._

Artie spotted Mike, Santana, and Brittany walking toward them. He pointed them out to Kurt before asking, "Should we tell them about our special powers or whatever?"

"I don't know," Kurt hedged. "What if it was a one-time thing? I don't want to freak them out with anything else if it's not even something that'll ever happen again."

"Okay," Artie said. "If it happens to either of us again, we'll both tell them our secret; if it doesn't, we'll just keep it to ourselves. Deal?"

"Deal."

Kurt held out his hand, Artie accepted, and they shook on it.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you all again soooo much for the continued support. It really does mean a lot! xD As always, I hope you love this chapter, and please remember to leave a review.

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><p><span>Chapter Seven<span>

"Oh, shit, is she okay?"

"She didn't hit her head or anything, but she banged her elbow up pretty badly."

"Oh, shit! Damn it, she's really hurt; oh, shit!"

"Damian, spewing profanities isn't going to help the situation."

Rachel could hear them talking, but she didn't have the strength to open her eyes. She felt herself being lifted into somebody's arms, cradled like some weak damsel-in-distress. She resented this, and tried to say so, but her voice didn't seem to be working and her mouth wouldn't open.

"Where are you taking her?" Blaine's voice, demanding.

"Relax; I'm not kidnapping her or anything. I'm going to dunk her in the ocean." Now Damian's, as if he were addressing an ignorant child.

"Okay, but when she wakes up, it's your funeral."

Rachel felt herself being bumped up and down as she was carried from the jungle and onto the beach. She finally fought off that weird half-asleep, half-awake state she had been in and managed to snap open her eyes just as Damian's feet splashed into the water.

She looked up at him, confused, then realized what he was about to do. He tossed her into the ocean just as she started to yell "don't you dare!" But all she had time to come out was the first panicked syllable of 'don't.'

She broke through the cold water, hitting the sandy, shallow bottom almost immediately. She scraped her chin, but not hard enough to draw blood. She panicked; her eyes flew open and she sucked in water, screaming.

She thrashed, tried to stand up, but her feet slipped against the mud, not finding purchase.

A hand grabbed the back of her shirt and pulled her out of the water. Her heart had leapt to her throat, but now it pounded wildly. She came up coughing and gasping and spluttering. Her hair was flipped into her face and her burning eyes were opened as wide as possible.

The wide cut on her right elbow stung horribly, thanks to the salty ocean water.

The whole ordeal had lasted only a small handful of seconds, but it had felt five times longer.

Damian dropped his hand from her shirt and grabbed right above her uninjured left elbow, tugged her out of the ocean and a few feet up the dry sand. She stumbled over her feet, but he steadied her. She was dripping wet, but Damian – the bastard – only had his shoes and the bottoms of his jeans soaked.

Rachel bent at the waist, hands on her knees, sucking in greedy gulps of air. She shivered from the coldness of the water, though the hot air helped warm her.

"Are you okay?" Damian asked. She swore she heard restrained laughter in his voice.

Using her neck, she flipped her hair out of her face and back behind her shoulders. She spotted Blaine standing a few feet away, covering his mouth to keep from laughing. And then she looked at Damian and saw the smirk on his face, completely neglected the fact that his eyes were actually softened, and fixed him with the fiercest Rachel Berry Glare she could muster.

But it was hard to look particularly fierce when she was drenched, shivering, and a stray lock of hair was falling over one eye.

She wanted to flick it away but knew that would just make her look even more pathetic.

As if reading her thoughts, Damian reached over and tucked the lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering for the briefest of seconds against the side of her face.

Rachel's heart skipped a beat.

But then she remembered that he'd just _tossed her into the ocean_, and her fury returned. Damian and Blaine could practically see the steam whistling from her ears. She was so angry, she couldn't even speak; her mouth just kept floundering.

Finally, she jabbed a finger in Damian's broad chest and stepped close enough that the tips of their shoes were touching. She may've been five-two to his five-ten, but that didn't make her back down. She glowered up at him; he stared down at her, clearly amused by her display of "menace."

"How dare you!" she hissed. "I had _just_ dried off completely! And now I am soaking wet!"

"Really?" Damian asked, half of his mouth drifting upward. "I hadn't noticed."

"He was just trying to help you, Rachel," said Blaine, ever the peacemaker. "We were worried about you. You _did _just faint, you know."

Damian cast a raised eyebrow down at Rachel's finger, which was still poking him in the chest. Feeling a blush heating from her cheeks to her collarbone, Rachel narrowed her eyes so much that her top and bottom eyelashes blurred together.

"Fine, _Damian_." She spat his name out as if it were a nasty bug. "I thank you for helping me. I will be sure to return the favor in the future." There was no missing the threat and sarcasm bristling her words.

And with that, she stomped back into the jungle. "I'm going to let my clothes dry out," she called over her shoulder. "Don't follow me unless you want to die a slow, painful death."

Blaine shot Damian a warning look. "She means it."

"Trust me," said Damian with a snort. "I won't test it."

* * *

><p>There was a brief period of silence following Finn's outburst. No one really knew what to say. Puck and Brittany were just beginning to digest that three of their friends were actually <em>gone<em>, forever. Mike, Santana, and Quinn had already known this horrible information, but they hadn't had time to fully process it, either.

After a few minutes, Brittany was the first to speak up. She was stilling holding Santana's hand, the only thing anchoring her to reality. Otherwise, she felt she might float away from her body and drift aimlessly among the clouds.

"It's weird to think that they're gone. It's not just one person; it's Mercedes _and_ Blaine _and_ Rachel. None of them were ever mean to me; none of them ever called me stupid. Well, not to my face, anyway."

"When we get back home, Glee Club is going to be a lot quieter without them," said Mike. "Especially without Rachel. She kind of _was_ Glee Club."

"Rachel was my fellow Jew," said Puck miserably. "She was the only one who understood what being a Jew really means."

For once, no one rolled their eyes at this.

"And Mercedes," Santana said with a small smile. "Girl could sing. I hate to admit this, but I've always been jealous of those pipes of hers. Whenever we had duets together, I always felt like I couldn't compete with how good she was."

"Blaine was one of the nicest, most real guys I've ever met," Mike said. "He got Kurt through a really bad time."

"Yeah, to think that curly-haired little dude isn't gonna be around anymore is weird," Puck frowned. "He and Kurt were, like, always making googly-eyes at each other. I just got used to it enough where I didn't feel like gagging when I saw it."

"I remember back when Rachel had that stutter," Brittany said, giving a nostalgic smile. "And she wore those fingerless gloves. I never told her this, but I always thought they were actually kind of cool on her."

There was an awkward pause before Mike said, "Uhm, Brittany, that was Tina who faked a stutter and liked to wear fingerless gloves. And as far as we know – and hope – she's not dead yet."

"Oh," said Brittany, having the courtesy to appear embarrassed.

"It's okay," Santana said, giving Brittany's hand a squeeze. "We never really got to know them. I actually started considering all of you losers my friends at some point, and I never once actually acted like it. I kind of feel bad about that now."

"So listen to me once, 'cause Mama ain't gonna say this again," she continued. "But all of you are my friends, ?" She rushed out the end, but the sentiment was still there.

"Yesterday, I would've killed to have heard the sweet news that Rachel would no longer be yapping on and on about stupid things like Broadway and cat sweaters," Puck said. "Now I just want her here, being as annoying as possible. 'Cause Annoying Rachel is better than No Rachel."

"Agreed," Mike nodded. "Poor Mercedes; she never did get her big solo."

"And Blaine," said Brittany. "He had nice hair."

"Yeah, he did," said Mike.

"Really good hair," Santana attested.

"_Almost_ as cool as mine," Puck gave a solemn nod.

"We should head back over to Artie and Kurt," Mike said. "All this talking about Rachel, Mercedes, and Blaine is making me want to spend time with the friends we _do_ have."

Santana and Brittany got to their feet, still holding hands. "Wait until you see Artie," Santana told Puck and Brittany with a mysterious grin.

"What happened?" Puck asked.

"You'll have to see for yourself, man," said Mike.

Mike, Santana, Brittany, and Puck started to head over to Kurt and Artie. But Quinn stayed behind, plopping down on the sand. "You guys go ahead," she told them when they started doubling back for her. "I'm fine."

Everyone continued walking except for Puck. He traced the few feet back to Quinn and sat down beside her.

"This okay?" he asked, motioning to his staying with her.

"Yeah," she said quietly. It was then that Puck noticed Quinn's eyes – clear as a cloudless sky and pale green – were glowing with unshed tears.

"What's wrong?" he asked, feeling stupid as soon as he'd said it. "I mean…you know…what _specifically_ is wrong? This whole thing sucks major monkey ass."

Quinn fiddled with a lock of tangled blonde hair, her lower lip quivering. She gave a giggle at Puck's less-than-elegant phrasing, but the giggle quickly transformed into tears. She started crying softly, wiping continuously at her tears as they fell.

Puck put his arm around her, drew her into his side.

"I just feel so _awful!_" Quinn wailed. "I was a complete and utter bitch to Rachel! And Mercedes was my friend; I even lived with her for a few months, remember? And I didn't get to know Blaine well enough to really miss him, and the whole not-missing-him is making me feel guilty and sad, which is ridiculous. I'm, like, feeling sad for _not_ feeling that sad about him!"

She leaned into Puck, rested her head on his shoulder. Her shoulders trembled, and Puck gave them a consoling squeeze. He rubbed slow circles around her back; Quinn could feel the familiar warmth of his big hand through the pale pink fabric of her plain shirt with puffed sleeves.

"I get it," he said. "They were all my friends, too. And I wasn't always that nice to any of them. All of us were usually pretty ass-hole-ish to Rachel, actually. But that was part of our cute dysfunctional Glee family relationship."

"But I was really, _really _mean to her," Quinn protested. "I went back out with Finn for a while partly so I could regain my popularity status, but also because I loved the power I had over her. I got a kick out of seeing how jealous and upset she was every time Finn and I passed by her, holding hands.

"And speaking of hands, I always called her Man Hands, when she didn't even _have_ Man Hands. She had normal hands, just not as perfect as mine." Quinn spoke in a miserable voice, but she had stopped physically crying.

"Yeah, you were a bitch to her, but you were a bitch to a _lot_ of people, Quinn," Puck said in what he obviously that was a comforting way.

Quinn stiffened and pulled away from him, shooting him a dirty look. "Was that supposed to make me feel better?" She sounded even more stuffed up than her breathy voice usually did.

"Um…yeah?" It came out more as a question.

Quinn rolled her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. She decided to let his comment pass.

"Quinn, even Mr. Schuester wasn't that nice to her," Puck pointed out. "Rachel just had a way about her of grating on everyone's last nerve. And I think it was because she always right. And if there's one thing people hate most, it's being proved wrong – especially by someone who wears sweaters with stuffed animals pinned to the front of them."

"Puck?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you just shut up and hold me?"

"Now _that_, I can do."

* * *

><p>Finn wiped the last of his tears away.<p>

His whole body ached with the strangely sweet kind of exhaustion that only a good cry can bring. He remembered his outburst toward his friends; humiliation flamed beneath his cheeks, down his neck.

He usually didn't freak out like that. In fact, the last time he could recall flipping his lid so drastically was back when he'd found out that Puck was actually the father of Quinn's baby.

He stood up; the action caused his legs to tingle with pins and needles. He must've been knelt over for quite some time to make them fall asleep. He stretched, took a shaky breath.

_It's all going to be okay,_ he told himself. But the words felt stale and cheap; he felt like he was lying to himself.

It was only when he bent at the waist to reach down and tug down his ridden-up jeans legs that he noticed his shredded sleeve.

Oh. Yeah. He'd punched a tree in. And then ripped it from its very roots and flung it into the jungle as easily as if it were a Frisbee.

This memory was so utterly strange and confusing that Finn's brain cramped. _What the hell?_ He thought, massaging his suddenly throbbing temples with his fingertips. _Did that really happen?_

He only had to look a bit to his right to see the evidence of the messy hole in the ground that had once been home to a tree that was at least twice the size of him in width alone.

He didn't want to deal with this right now. He had _way_ too much going on without adding his newfound sport of Tree Flinging to the list.

A sudden urgency to get back to his friends spread through him; he felt very alone and oddly vulnerable. A craving for his companions' company coursed within.

Low-hanging branches scraped at his face as he followed his violently flattened trail from the jungle back to the beach. It was almost as if the trees were taking revenge on him for what he'd done to one of their own. Finn felt like issuing a personal apology to them. Maybe there was a Hallmark card out there that said, 'Hey, sorry I yanked your fellow tree buddy from the ground and sent him hurtling through the air'? Then again, the irony of said card being made from trees might counteract the nicety of the gesture.

Finally, Finn's swift footsteps carried him over the tree line and back onto the powdery sand. He spotted his friends over to where Kurt and Artie had been and hurried over there.

For some reason, neither Quinn nor Puck was amongst the group. Still, Finn walked up to a sight that actually made a smile curl up the corners of his lips.

Artie was dancing with Brittany, spinning her around and following her fluid footwork, fancy and quick. Santana, Kurt, and Mike were clapping and cheering. Kurt stuck his forefingers in the sides of his mouth and let loose an appreciative whistle, smooth and high-pitched.

Mike grabbed Santana and started joining in, following Brittany and Artie's lead. The rhythm was a mix between salsa, swing, and tango; the music provided was the easy giggles and jokingly competitive words of the group.

Finn tapped Kurt on the shoulder. His step-brother spun around to face him. "Hey, Finn, where've ya been?" he asked.

Finn was relieved that Kurt was in such a better mood now. A part of him felt sort of bitter that everyone was having a jolly ol' time when there was so much sadness and despair all around them, but he knew that these shining moments of true, actual happiness chasing away the shadows and the darkness were the only thing keeping them sane.

He ignored Kurt's question, opting to ask one of his own instead. "Care to dance?" He bowed low, gentlemanly, and offered his big, boyish hand to Kurt's more slender one.

Kurt grinned, curtsied, and accepted Finn's hand. "Of course."

They danced a clumsy waltz, with Finn occasionally stepping on Kurt's foot. They laughed as Finn gave Kurt a great twirl, accidentally releasing mid-spin and sending him flying right into Santana and Mike. Rather than getting all huffy and superior like Santana usually would, she busted out laughing as Kurt and Mike crashed into the sand.

Soon, everyone was laughing so hard that their sides hurt. Brittany helped up Kurt as Artie helped up Mike.

"That was great!" said Artie. "We should really put that into a routine when we get back home."

Kurt smirked. "Yeah, we should definitely keep in the whole Finn-sending-me-flying-into-Santana-and-Mike part, because that'll _really_ wow the judges."

"We could call it our own original dance move," Mike joked. "'The Island!"

"Or 'The Hudson,'" Finn chuckled. "Since it wouldn't have been possible without my two left feet."

"Okay, how about, 'The Hudson Island'?" suggested Kurt, holding his hands up and spreading them apart as he spoke the name.

"Sounds good to me," said Santana.

"I thought Hudson Island was in New York?" Brittany's eyebrows furrowed together.

"That's _Staten_ Island, sweetie," Santana said, not condescendingly, as she gave Brittany a small and affectionate smile.

"Can we keep dancing?" Kurt asked. "It takes my mind off things."

"Yeah, of course," said Mike.

"Let's take it from the top!" Santana clapped her hands together to count off the rhythm. She turned to Brittany, slid her arm around her waist, and pulled her in close. "But this time, _you're_ my partner."


End file.
